


Secret Warriors/Vessels of Light/Guardians

by wierdrocks



Category: Destiny (Video Game), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Death, Light Angst, Not Really Character Death, Other, Philosophy, sometimes beta read, spirituality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 54,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wierdrocks/pseuds/wierdrocks
Summary: [Takes place around the middle of season 5]An entire new, terrifying world opens up for Deep Space 9 after Kira receives a mysterious visitor claiming to have been sent by the Prophets.





	1. The Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been developing this for almost a year and I wasn't even gonna post it but the first chapter turned out really nice so I was like why not????????  
> My first longfic set in the Trek universe.  
> Feel free to rip this shit to shreds. I'm not gonna improve otherwise lol
> 
> The song they're singing is The Indiana Man by American Murder Party: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlggmcAzzXQ

Kira had been preparing to head to Odo's office for their weekly meeting when someone rang her doorbell. She opened the door to find the hallway outside empty.  
"Hello?" She leaned out of the doorway and looked around once, twice. One of her neighbors, a Bajoran security officer was exiting his quarters. "Tayorna" She called.  
"Yes, Major?" He stood at attention for a moment.  
"Did you happen to see anyone out here?"  
"No, Major. I don't think so." He looked around the corridor. "Is everything alright?"  
"Yes it's fine." Kira smiled. "I just hope I'm not hearing things." She shook her head and ducked back onto her room to grab her padd before heading to Odo's office. When she turned around, door sliding shut behind her, there was someone standing in the middle of her quarters. Kira started, eyes going wide as she took in the sight of the 7-foot tall humanoid in front of her. They wore elaborate grey, black, and white robes. They work a black hood and a white mask covered their face completely. They stood with their gloved hands out in front of them in what was supposed to be a calming gesture. Kira fell into a fighting stance.  
"Nerys." They said. "Please, don't be alarmed. I have come in the name of the Prophets." As they finished speaking, Kira's hand was no more than a centimeter above her com-badge, ready to summon security. She lowered her hand slowly.  
"The Prophets?" She furrowed her brow.  
"Yes." They lowered their hands as well, clasping them in front of their stomach the way Vedics tended to. "I am called The Speaker and I've been sent here to ask something of you."  
"Why me?" Kira retorted immediately, her defensive posture not relaxing for a second. "Why wouldn't The Prophets send you to The Emmisary."  
"Because you are the right one to hear this message, Kira. You are the right one to complete the mission I have for you. Your dedication to the The Prophets and to the safety of Bajor make you the ideal person to carry out the Will of The Prophets."  
"Alright." Kira relaxed only slightly. "Well why can't I see your face? And why haven't I ever read about a "Speaker" in my studies?"  
"Mm." They nodded. "The simple answer is that Bajoran society is not the only one that worships the Prophets." Kira tried to hide the surprise on her face. It never occurred to her that her people could be sharing their beloved deities. "Kira, do you understand that The Prophets are beings that live inside the wormhole, who exist outside of the flow of linear time?" Kira nodded. "Okay, then please also know that the ones who live inside the wormhole are not the only members of their species. There are other, which live outside the wormhole and who are worshipped in a similar manner by other peoples."  
"Including you?" She asked. The Speaker nodded.  
"My people call our gods The Travelers, but they are our gods, Kira. Yours and mine. And I, I suppose you could say, am their Emissary. I serve as an intermediary between the Travelers and my people. And, today, you. I wear this mask because it is traditional for The Speaker. I would not ask you to remove your earring, Kira, and I humbly request that you not to ask me to remove my mask."  
"I won't." Kira shook her head. When they put it that way, she had to admit that it sounded incredibly rude to ask that they show their face.  
"Thank you, Nerys." They bowed their head. "Please." They gestured toward her sofa. "We have much to discuss. Will you sit?"  
Kira paused. She stared at them. She contemplated summoning security anyway. She gave the Speaker an up and down look and then sat down.  
“Thank you.” The Speaker said again. “Now, Nerys—Oh! Or do you prefer Major?”  
“Kira is fine.” She smiled awkwardly. She looked at them for a moment, then away and back again.  
"What do the Prophets want me to do?" She asked finally.  
"Thank you for hearing me out. Are you familiar with the writings of Bonju Yeema?"  
"She wrote about the Secret Warriors." Kira smiled. "Yes, I know her works. She was the only one to ever mention the Secret Warriors in the Ancient Texts."  
"That's right. Please, tell me what you know of the Secret Warriors."  
"Oh, well," Kira thought for a moment. "Bonju wrote that the Prophets created beings called Kebet Pagh. Machines that would choose individual people to fill with a great power called Prophet's Fire. And those chosen people would become Secret Warriors, wielding the Prophet's Fire to vanquish enemies of Bajor and The Prophets."  
"Do you remember anything else?" The Speaker asked.  
"She wrote that they were Deykn eta morala: Soliders without end. That they worked tirelessly to keep Bajor safe from the forces of evil." She smiled fondly. "When I was working with the Shakaar Resistance Cell, I used to liken us to the Secret Warriors. Moving in the shadows, working in the name of the Prophets to take back our home from the Kardashians." She looked sheepish for a moment. "Most of the others in my cell thought I was being a little silly. They didn't beleive in the Secret Warriors."  
"Not many do." The Speaker said. "Bonju Yeema was one of only a handful of people in the entire galaxy who ever wrote about us."  
"Us?" Kira asked, startled. The Speaker a reached over and touched her hand, smooth, warn leather sliding gently over skin.  
"Kira, the fight of the Resistance was a noble one. I can tell you that we would have been proud to have served alongside any of you."  
"We?" Kira repeated. She looked at them strangely, pulling her hand back. The Speaker nodded.  
"I am one of the Secret Warriors, Kira." They touched their hand to their chest and brought it forward. Suddenly, there was a small machine--maybe the size of her coffee mug--floating in the air above their hand. Kira inched back on the couch, eyes wide. The machine was shaped little a tetrahedron, with several sides and points. The shape reminded Kira of a star. There was a black and blue "eye" in the center. It seemed to scan Kira for a moment, panels rustling like it was shaking itself awake. The Speaker continued:  
"And this is my Kebet Pagh."  
"I prefer the term 'Ghost'." It said, voice sounding tinny and artifical, like the station's computer. "My name's Bastion." The Speaker lowered their hand and Bastian floated out toward Kira, getting a little too close to her face. "Hello, Chosen One! Very nice to meet you!" It floated back to the Speaker and settled in a place just above their head, bobbing up and down in the air slightly.  
"The Holder of The Soul." Kira said quietly.  
"That's right!" Bastian's eye narrowed in what passed for a smile on someone who didn't have much of a face.  
"Kira," The Speaker's voice startled her. She blinked. "Do you know why the Secret Warriors are eternal?"  
"I always interpreted it as being because their fight is eternal."  
"While that is true, we as Secret Warriors are also eternal." They said and Kira only stared. They continued:

"If you were to shoot me with your phaser right now, and kill me, Bastian would use the Prophet's Fire to revive me."  
"What?" Kira's brow furrowed. The Speaker nodded.  
"Ghosts have the ability to heal any wound. That includes mortal ones. You see, the Kebet Pagh do not simply choose someone to serve as a Secret Warrior. They choose those who have passed on from this life. We are an army of the chosen dead, risen by the Prophet's Fire and sicced on minions of the Darkness."  
"Because Guardians-- that's what they call themselves, Gaurdians-- because Guardians don't die, we are able to fend off the Darkness with a smaller fighting force." Bastian explained.  
"We know it's a lot to process." The Speaker said. Kira nodded. "Take your time." They sat back and waited patiently while Kira's eyes darted back and forth, while her mind spun.  
"The Kebet Pagh don't hold your souls to make you stronger," she said slowly. "They hold them to keep them safe?" She looked up at Bastian. His front half dipped in the air a few times. A nod.  
"Yes exactly! The Travelers knew you would be a good candidate for this mission!"  
"Right." Kira shook her head to clear it. "What exactly is my mission?"  
"There is evil in this world." The Speaker said gravely. "A Darkness that consumes and destroys all that it touches. There are those who serve the Darkness, minions who worship it and its champions as gods, who seek out and destroy all sources of the Prophet's Fire—we call it The Light."  
"Guardians have a very important job fighting those people," Bastian said plainly. "Is what they're saying."  
"But there are those who would stop us.” The Speaker stood suddenly, hands balled into fists. They started to pace a short line across Kira’s rug. She watched them carefully. Bastian puttered along in the air behind them, worried. Those so concerned with their agendas that they would put billions of people’s lives at risk." They sounded angry. Kira understood why they would be. The Secret Warriors-- Guardians-- were raised from the dead to keep people safe from evil and there were people trying to stop them?  
“I’m sorry.” They sighed, standing still for a moment.  
“It’s alright.” Kira said quietly. “I understand.”  
“In two weeks, a group of people will arrive at Deep Space 9—” They sat back down again. Bastian nuzzled against the size of their head. Kira smiled at the sweetness of it. “They are a council of scientists who have been gathered by an organization called the Concordat.”  
“The Concordat hates Guardians.” Bastian said. He floated down onto the Speaker’s lap and settled there amongst the folds of their robes. The Speaker petted him gently. “They want to destroy the Light and drive the Travelers’ influence out of this galaxy. They’re starting with the Alpha Quadrant because of Bajor’s relationship with the Travelers that live in the wormhole. Sorry. The Prophets.”  
“The Prophets won’t let that happen.” Kira said adamantly.  
“Exactly.” The Speaker said. “That’s why they sent me here to speak with you, Kira. These scientists will come to the station to present the findings of a study to The Emissary and several delegates from all over the Alpha Quadrant.”  
“What are their findings?” Kira asked, looing between Bastian and the Speaker. Bastian seemed to shiver.  
“They killed someone.” Bastian said. “They dissected a Ghost. Tore them apart, drained them of their Light.” The Speaker cradled their Ghost in their hands, bringing him close to their abdomen. A hug. “The only way to kill a Ghost is to drain their Light. This Ghost they captured hadn’t even found their Guardian yet. They didn’t do anything wrong, just got too close to Concordat territory while searching for their Guardian. It’s hard to find the person who belongs to you, whose Light entwines perfectly with yours.”  
“In destroying that Ghost,” The Speaker said. “Not only did they extinguish one of the Prophets’ creations, but they prevented a Guardian from existing. That is one less warrior to fight against the Darkness. And that is what the Concordat wants.”  
“Because they’re assholes.” Bastian mumbled.  
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Kira said quietly. She thought for a moment. “Do Ghosts go to be with the Prophets when they die?” Bastian wiggled from side to side, effectively “shaking his head”.  
“When our Light is drained, it disperses amongst the universe. It goes on to help other Ghosts heal and aid their Guardians. A dead Ghost becomes one with the forces of Light. And that’s beautiful but the Concordat have no right to make it happen.”  
“No they don’t.” Kira said. She looked up at the Traveler. “I still don’t’ quite understand what the Prophets need me to do.”  
“After the Concordat’s scientists present their findings, they will argue that the Light is evil because of the way it twists nature—the Concordat was founded on the belief that the Light corrupts, that it destroys what it touches.”  
“And also that anyone who carries the Light is corrupt.” Bastian added.  
“They will attempt to persuade the Alpha Quadrant Representatives to drive the Guardian Vanguard out of this quadrant.”  
“That’s our governing body, by the way.”  
“Oh, yes. Sorry. The Vanguard are a group of senior Guardians who are tasks with day-to-day operations. They coordinate strikes against the Darkness and raids on its strongholds. Things like that. I was also a senior Guardian before the Travelers chose me to Speak for them, but I was never a Vanguard.” The Speaker explained. Kira nodded.  
“And if the representatives choose to drive out the Vanguard, you’ll have to go? You’re the Secret Warriors. Couldn’t you carry on as you usually do and no one would know?”  
“Oh that we could, Kira.” The Speaker said forlornly. “The Light cannot go where it is not wanted. If all of Bajor rejected the Prophets tomorrow, they would no longer be able to intercede in your affairs. There would be no more visions to be had, no more songs to sing. Captain Sisko would no longer be the Emissary.” Kira nodded once, face hard.  
“If the Vanguard is driven out will the Prophet go too?”  
“No.” The Speaker said sharply. “You will still have your gods if we fall, Kira. I promise you.” She breathed out in relief. They put a hand on her shoulder. “When the representatives vote on whether or not they should take action against us, that vote will end in a tie because The Emissary will not be sure. Because of his relationship with the Prophets, he will be less inclined to reject their fellows.”  
“He’s gonna ask you for advice, Kira.” Bastian floated up to meet her gaze. “We’re asking you—The Prophets and the Travelers are asking you—to use the information we’ve given you today to save us. Save the Guardians, so that we can continue to protect you. That’s all we want to do.” He floated back to his place near The Speaker’s head. “I’m going to show you what happened the last time the Concordat won.” A beam of light shot out from his eye, ending in the middle of the space between Kira and The Speaker. An image formed there, light a holo-projector, but more real. The scene that played out was even more vivid than images on the holodeck. And what a scene.  
Bastian was showing her a debris field. Even with everything destroyed, it was easy to see the remains of cities, towns, space stations and starships. An entire civilization was laid out before her in broken, devastated pieces.  
“This is the Eliksni Homeworld.” Bastian explained. “They once worshipped the Travelers in much the same way Bajorans worship the Prophets. They called them The Great Machines. They were a prosperous civilization that stretched out over their entire solar system. They were peaceful and advanced.”  
“And then the Concordat came.” The Speaker said evenly.  
“Cause they’re assholes.” Bastian spat. “The Concordat preyed on the Eliksni leaders. They got them addicted to the Darkness, to the way it felt to wield it. They were tricked into destroying themselves!”  
“All in the name of furthering the Concordat’s agenda against the Light.” The Speaker petted Bastian again.  
“What happened to them?” Kira was almost afraid of the  
“The Fall of Eliksni was a fifty years ago.” Bastian explained, their projected image disappearing. “Only a few Houses survived and now they’re still struggling to regain any semblance of their previous glory, colonizing planets in the Beta Quadrant.”  
“If the Darkness touches Bajor, it will fall the way the Eliksni homeworld did. And so will all of the Alpha Quadrant.” Kira nodded.  
“I understand. The Prophets want me to make sure Captain Sisko votes to keep the Vangaurd alive in the Alpha Quadrant.”  
“Well,” Bastian wiggled uncertainly. “We’re not here to make you do anything.”  
“Our goal was simply to educate you on the situation, to let you hear our side before the Concordat gives you theirs.”  
“Yeah, if you hear what they have to say and decide that the Light really does twist nature of whatever, feel free to advice the Emissary to tell us all to kick rocks.”  
“Exactly.” The Speaker nodded. “The Prophets chose you because they were confidant you would make the right choice. It is not up to us to decide what that choice is.”  
“And besides,” Bastian smiled. “You won’t be alone. We’ve just been to see a Guardian who lives here on your station.” Kira started.  
“There’s a Secret Warrior living on Deep Space 9? Who?”  
“That is not our secret to tell, Kira.” The Speaker shook their head. “Like you, they also know that someone with the whole story will be there, but not who they are or how they will advise The Emissary.”  
Kira looked away for a moment, going through a list of everyone the Captain could possibly ask for advice, and whether or not they could secretly be undead soldiers locked in and endless battle against an unknowable evil force. When she looked up again, The Speaker was gone.


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if this stops making sense, okay?

A week after her visit from the Speaker, Kira was summoned to Captain Sisko’s office. She and Dax got there at the same time.  
Captain Sisko was sitting with his fingers laced together over his sternum, leaned back in his chair, face contemplative. Odo was standing to one side with his arms crossed, looking decidedly passed off. Julian was sitting back in his chair, playing with his hands in his lap.  
"Looks like we got here just in time." Dax said wryly, and took a seat next to Julian. He nodded to her in greeting.  
"Hello, Major." Odo nodded to her. Kira decided that the Secret Warrior definitely wasn't Odo. First of all, he wasn't a very spiritual person and the Speaker had repeatedly referred to the Travelers as gods. They'd spoken of the Light and Guardians' duties with such reverence... No it wasn't Odo.  
"I've just had a visit from Weyoun." Captain Sisko said and Kira looked at him wide-eyed. There had been no mention of the Dominion playing a part in this... although, Kira wouldn't doubt that they were a force for the Darkness. She tried not to laugh at the thought. Captain Sisko continued:  
“Apparently, The Dominion have had a visit from a council of scientists who have discovered an extremely dangerous phenomenon. How did he put it?” He thought for a moment. “’Something that could mean the end of life in this galaxy as we know it’.” There was a pause as everyone took that in. Odo spoke first.  
“And did Weyoun mention what exactly this phenomenon was?” The Captain shook his head and shrugged.  
“The council hasn’t told him or The Founders. They’re waiting for a meeting to convene of representatives from all over the Alpha Quadrant. I’ve volunteered the station to host.”  
“If it’s so dangerous,” Dax spoke up. “Why are they waiting to present their findings?” Dax could be the Secret Warrior. How complicated did being Joined make the reanimation process? Did Jadzia and Dax have separate pagh or were they conjoined, entangled, so that her Ghost could hold onto both of them at same time. Kira tried not to stare at Dax as she puzzled through these questions.  
“I don’t know.” Sisko sat forward and leaned his forearms against his desk. “But I am eager to find out. The representatives and the council will be arriving in one week. Dax,” He grabbed a padd from his desk and handed it to the Commander. “This is a list of supplies and requirements they need for whatever demonstration they’re planning.” Dax scanned the list, jaw clenched. Maybe because she was being forced to help these people  
“Alright.” She said with a nod.  
“Dr. Bashir,” Sisko turned to him and Julian practically jumped. Kira narrowed her eyes. Julian seemed like too much of a braggart to have kept such amazing power to himself for so long. But maybe that made it extra fun for him. Walking around carrying the Prophet’s Fire all day. And maybe experience with Ghosts’ healing techniques made him a better doctor? She shook her head to clear it. Sisko was still talking:  
“I think we should prepare to quarantine the area where this meeting will take place.”  
“I’ll talk to my staff about it.” Julian nodded.  
“Thank you. I’m going to speak with Lt. Cdr. Worf about possible…” Kira zoned out again. Worf! Worf could be the Secret Warrior. He was on the Enterprise when it crashed. Could that have been when he died originally? She hadn’t even considered when Julian or Dax would have first met their Ghost. And it wasn’t ridiculous to believe a Klingon would make a good candidate for becoming an immortal warrior  
“Major?” Sisko’s voice took her out of her head. She jolted.  
“Sorry, Captain.” She said quickly. “What was that?”  
“First Minister Shakaar and Kai Winn will both be attending the meeting. I’d like your help in making them both feel… welcome.” He smiled wryly. Kira nodded.  
“Of course, Captain.”  
Sisko dismissed everyone but Kira to get on with their assignments.  
“Captain?” She raised her eyebrows.  
“Is something wrong, Kira?” He asked, voice concerned. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how… out of touch you were during that entire meeting.”  
For a moment, Kira considers telling the Captain everything. She’s always been able trust Sisko. And when the time came, he’d be able to make a more informed decision if he knew both sides of the story. And Sisko would understand the need for the Secret Warriors. He was the Emissary! He understood the Prophets’ power. Maybe she couldn’t show him what she’d seen of the Eliksni homeworld lying in ruin, but she could convince him it was real. Perhaps she could recreate it on the hollodeck? He’d never sit idly by and let Bajor or the Federation be put in that kind of danger.  
“I’m fine Captain.” She said with a smile. Sisko gave her a questioning look. He didn’t believe her. “It’s just…” She sighed. “I’ve had a vision. From the Prophets.”  
“Oh?” Sisko sat forward, curious. “Major that’s an incredible experience. Are you alright?”  
“I,” Again, she considered spilling her guts. “I haven’t made much sense of it yet. But I will. I’m processing.”  
“Do you need some time off? I know how draining being in contact with the Prophets.”  
“No, it’s alright.” She shook her head. “Thank you for your concern but I’ll manage.” She smiled. He nodded.  
“Let me know if there’s anything you need.”  
“I will, Captain. Thank you.”


	3. The Room

Dax and Chief O’Brien were tasked with selecting an appropriate venue for the visiting science council’s “demonstration”. Armed with Odo and Worf’s threat assessments, Julian’s advice about possible quarantine needs, and the knowledge that whatever they were allowing onto the station could quite possible kill everyone on board, they selected Cargo Bay 2.  
“If this thing,” O’Brien said as he and Dax wheeled a piece of equipment into the cargo bay. “Whatever it is, is so dangerous, why not just destroy it?”  
“There’s value in understanding things, Chief.” Dax said as they came to a stop in the middle of the room. Two Star Fleet science officers helped them open the equipment crate’s heavy lid. Inside of it was some kind of machine with a glass dome on top. There were several black tubes leading from the machine's base to the dome and a control panel on the front of it. It took four people to lift it from its case and into a special stand.  
"I suppose." O'Brien grunted as they lifted the whatever-it-was. "But, usually when I'm trying to learn more about something that might kill me, it's so I can learn how t' kill it back." They got the Machine onto its stand and locked into place.  
"Well, this whole conference is supposed to be some kind if warning." Dax shrugged, standing back and admiring their work. O’Brien chuckled.  
"Looks like a giant gumball machine." He tapped the dome.   
"I'm sure it's a very sophisticated piece of equipment." Dax said, feigning a haughty air. They laughed and got back to unloading the equipment. When they were done, the domed machine was surrounded by banks of computer cores and a display monitor. That was when Odo and Station Security arrived with Dr. Bashir and several crates of organic material.  
"Plants and small rodents." Julian explained. "Odo wanted me to make sure they didn't pose any kind of threat themselves before we brought them onto the station." He looked around the cargo bay with a sigh. O’Brien opened on the crates marked LIVE SPECIMEN. "Apparently computer simulations aren't enough for these people. In a few days, we're going to be treated them torturing some poor, innocent creatures."  
"Oi!" O'Brien recoiled from crate he'd been inspecting. "These are Cardassian voles! Like we need more of these things on the station." He sounds utterly disgusted. Dax laughed.  
"Maybe that's so we don't sympathize with them?" She raised her brows.  
O’Brien shook his head and stepped away from the crates. “You all can put those over there.” He gesture vaguely behind all of the equipment. Odo walked up to the group of officers and sighed.  
“Well, everything is set for the conference.” He said. “Though I’m still not sure the Captain should be allowing these ‘Concordat’ people on board.”  
“Concordat?” Dax asked. “Is that the name of the council?”  
“The group who sponsored their research. I can’t find much on them in any inter-planetary databases. Not even the inimitable Memory Alpha has much more than a list of leaders and a mission statement.”  
“What is that mission statement?” O’Brien furrowed his brow. Odo thought for a moment before reciting:  
“’Standing together to protect the known galaxy from threats yet to be understood’.”  
“How wonderfully vague.” Julian chuckled.  
“And ominous.” Dax added.


	4. The Conference

Representatives from all over the Alpha and Beta Quadrants arrived for the Concordat’s conference: The Federation, the Klingon and Romulan empires, Breen Confederacy, Ferengi Alliance, and even a Tholian rep coming to them via monitor. They were all specialists who would report back to their respective governments about the danger they were all apparently in mortal peril from. Weyoun brought along another Vorta, who was apparently more versed in quantum physics than he was and the Kai and First Minister had assistance from a Bajoran scientist.  
The Concordat’s scientists were three Vulcans, two humans, a Klingon, a Takaron, and two unjoined Tril, including a Concordat Rep named Illiara. They all wore a bright green symbol somewhere on their clothing that resembled a downturned fist. Illiara stood in front of the assembly and made a speech about the importance of the conference and how grateful she and her organization were for being heard.  
“And I hope that each and every one of you will see reason.” She concluded with a smile. “Now, on with our demonstration. Dr. Haduak?” She gestured to one of the Vulcan scientists and then stepped away. Haduak nodded stiffly and pulled a containment canister out from behind a vole crate. It was a large, cylindrical thing with black panels where clear glass usually was for containers like it. The other scientists busied about the domed machine and the monitors as he placed the canister in a slot on the machine’s side.  
“Shield your eyes.” Haduak said calmly and pressed a button. “I am draining the container into the demonstration unit.” Most people looked away as the glass dome suddenly filled with a bright white light. The dome slowly turned opaque to shield observers from the light.  
Kira’s breath hitched. Light. “The Light”? Was that the soul of the Kebet Pagh that The Speaker and Bastion has told her about?”  
“This is Substance 29.” Haduak explained. “We extracted this sample from a machine that was being powered by it.” There was Kira’s question answered. She was looking at the trapped and tortured soul of a Secret Warrior’s companion. She thought she might be sick. “This is the special phenomenon which we have gathered here today to discuss.” A few people were taking notes. Kira had meant to types thing out on her padd, to make sure she had all the information she needed to defend the Warriors to Sisko later, but she just sat there staring at the mass of white light in the dome as it writhed and contorted. Was she the only one who could see that it was in pain? Another scientist, the Klingon named Numika, reached into a crate and plucked out a vole.  
“This creature will serve as our…” She glanced at one of the human scientists. “Guinea pig for this experiment.” She moved to the back of the machine and stooped. Kira imagined that there was panel in the back that allowed her to place the vole into the machine without interacting with the Light in the dome. The glass was just clear enough for them to make out the shape of the vole being raised up into the dome. One monitor displayed the picture inside it quite clearly. Another one showed the vole’s life force. Another had a display that resembled a heart rate monitor. One of the humans explained that it was measuring the energy output of “Substance 29”. Haduak spoke:  
“Substance 29 reacts to most living things in a volatile manner.” As if on cue, the vole was suddenly besieged by what appeared to be lighting going off inside the done. It arched and sparked off the glass, seeming to actually go after the poor creature. Several onlookers winced or averted their eyes as the vole was electrocuted to death. Haduak continued:  
“It has not even left alive the single-celled organisms living on the vole.” A monitor illustrated his point.  
“Hold on,” The Klingon representative, A’shorka, spoke up. He was gruff man who bore chemical burns on his hands and face; “battle scars” from his work in the sciences. “You’re speaking of this substance as if it were alive, as if it were doing these things on purpose.”  
“Certainly looked like that to me.” O’Brien shrugged.  
“Is this thing not simply a spacial phenomenon?” A’Shorka asked. "No different than the radiation produced by a star or the gravitational pull of a black hole?"   
“That question is one of the reasons this conference was so urgent.” Numika explained. “Our research has concluded that Substance 29 is sentient. It makes decisions in order to preserve itself.”  
“And it preys on the lives of others,” Haduak added. He lifted a trey of fruit plants from one of the crates. “Using specifically chosen methods. Electrocution is the most efficient method for destroying a Cardassian vole.” He replaced the dead vole with the tray of plants. Numika discarded the animal casually and Kira almost flinched. How many test subjects had they sacrificed to their research? Images flashed in her mind of the nine of them standing around the dome late at night, coffees and snacks in hand, throwing living creatures to the Substance and laughing as they were eviscerated in new and interesting ways. Sisko noticed her shiver and asked if she was okay. She smiled and nodded assuredly but he kept glancing at her for the next few minutes, even as flames erupted in the dome.  
“It could have used the lightning again,” Haduak said. “But instead it has chosen the most efficient method for destroying these plants.”  
“And for no reason.” Illiara said.  
“What’d you mean?” Dax asked.  
“The vole was one thing. It could have attacked Substance 29. But what threat does fruit pose? Substance 29 lashes out and attacks all living things.”  
“Okay.” The Ferengi representative, Gomra, sat forward in his seat. “But only because you put living things near it, right? Where does this stuff live normally? Couldn’t we just avoid it?”  
“Unfortunately, no.” Haduak said. “There is an entire culture surrounding the use of Substance 29 to extinguish life.” There was a long moment of silence before the conference erupted into a flurry of questions and concerned shrieking. Illiara stepped into the middle of the room again, hands raised in a calming gesture.  
“Everyone, please, settle down. Our purpose here today was not alarm you,” Someone scoffed. “But rather, to warn you. And to ask for your governments’ help in exterminating this threat.” There was another uproar and Illiara looked incredibly surprised. As if suggesting everyone there help her in committing some kind of genocide were perfectly normal and they were the ones being unreasonable.  
“You’re talking about the extermination of an entire culture!” Sisko said angrily, voice rising above the chaos in the room. Everyone started to calm down again as he spoke. “Isn’t that just what you claim these people are trying to do?”  
“We don’t have to kill the vessels.” Haduak explained calmly. “We only have to destroy Substance 29. Without their weapon, their assault on life in the galaxy will stop.”  
“Vessels?” Julian asked.  
“Those who wield Substance 29.”  
“Where is your proof of them?” Gomra asked. “You’ve showed us this substance thing, but where are the vessels? Have you dissected one of them? What species are they? Where are they headquartered?”  
“I never thought I’d agree with a Ferengi,” A’shorka muttered. “But Gomra is right. You cannot suggest we mount some kind of an offensive on a people that you say exists simply for reasons that you haven’t explained.”  
“These things are unnatural!” Illira raised her voice. “Their very existence flies in the face of all that should be! They are an abomination and they must be stopped!”  
“Doctor.” Haduak said firmly. Illiara took a few deep breaths and retreated to the calming arms of some of the other Concordat scientists. Haduak took her place.  
“I will try to be as concise as possible.” He said. “The beings which wield Substance 29 are a collective of different species from all over our galaxy. This collective uses Substance 29 to add to their numbers by raising individuals from the dead. We have footage of this happening.” He glanced over at Numika and she was already fiddling with one of the monitors.  
The video that played was of a tetrahedral shape floating across a dusty field on Vulcan. Haduak explained that it was the sight of a pre-Surak Reform battlefield. It served as a reminder of Vulcan’s barbaric past. He also explained that the sample of Substance 29 they’d been working with had been extracted from a creature similar to the one of the screen. The conference watched as the peculiar shape scanned the ground of the battlefield, working over every inch of the space for a few minutes until it suddenly came to a stop near the center. Numika zoomed in the footage.  
A bright beam of light shot out of from the shape’s eye, the same a light had shot from Bastion when he’d show Kira the images of the Eliksni. And then the Kebet Pagh expanded outward, the points of its body stretching out and floating in an orbital pattern around a sphere in its center. It glowed subtly the same was Substance 29 glowed and Kira realized that she was witnessing the birth of a Secret Warrior. She tried to keep her breathing even, pretended she didn’t notice the worried looks Sisko was giving her.  
The ground below the Kebet Pagh shifted and rumbled. It lowered itself closer to the ground, its light glowing brighter. A minute later, a hand burst from the ground and the conference collectively jumped. The hand was whole and healthy-looking, except for the greyed color of its flesh. It clawed at the air and then the ground as the Kebet Pagh reformed. It flew around the hand, wriggling about same way Bastion had when he’d spoken. Kira imagined it was talking to its Secret Warrior, encouraging them to claw their way out of their own grave.  
It took a few minutes for them to dig their way up out of the ground, and then they were coughing and sputtering, the hot Vulcan sun shining down against their naked, grey flesh. The Kebet Pagh shot out its light again and bits of fabric started crawling across their body. Clothing knitted together on their body as the conference watched. The person took the deepest breath Kira had ever seen, throwing their head back so that their long dark hair flew up in a mangled arch. They stood shakily on legs they hadn’t used in centuries, taking a couple of steps as the Kebet Pagh floated near their head.  
As the conference watched, greyed flesh began to steadily turn a more healthy-looking warm brown. Dry, broken black hair became shiny and sleek. They looked at the camera for a moment and the conference could see life in their eyes. They shook their head, talking to the Kebet Pagh and combing their fingers through their long hair. They looked around strangely. Kira guessed it would be quite disorienting to be ripped from death and find yourself in what was effectively a completely different world.  
They looked toward the camera again and smiled. Smiled big and bright and somewhat mischievous. There was a group gasp from the conference. They started to tie their waist-length hair back in a topknot and Haduak paused the video.  
“This man was a casualty at the Battle of Peywun Hill thousands of years ago. He now lives again, spreading Substance 29’s influence somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant. I hope that this illustration had helped you all to understand our concern over the substance and its vessels.”  
“Pardon me,” Weyoun waved. “But if Substance 29 and its vessels are so concerning, why haven’t we heard of them before? Why hasn’t the Dominion encountered them?”  
“It is likely that everyone in this room at one point in their lives, has been in contact with a vessel of Substance 29. It is our estimate that one in every one hundred and ten sentient beings have been influenced by the substance. There could be several Vessels living here on the station.” Kira glanced around the room. Where are you? She asked silently. Do you know I’m not buying any of this? Do you know I’m here for you?  
“So what?” Gomra spat. “These people—if they even exist—have been operating in our galaxy for centuries and none of us have gotten off any worse for it.” He shrugged. “Why not just let them carry on?”  
“I think we’ve just witnessed proof that they exist.” A’shorka snorted.  
“The 105th Rule of Acquisition:” Gomra sat up haughtily. “Never trust anything you didn’t see for yourself. We didn’t see this man rise from the dead. We saw a video of it. You’d be surprised what they can do with holo-projectors these days. And besides, I haven’t heard any worlds or peoples being destroyed by these vessel things. For all I know they just use Substance 29 to kill vermin like that vole there.” He pointed to where its blackened body lay in partial view behind one of the crates. “Have you all spoken to these people? Found out their purpose beyond your own speculation?” The Concordat glanced at each other. “I’d thought not.” Illiara stepped forward again, assuring her friends that she could remain calm.  
“Substance 29 is extremely toxic.” She explained. “The vessels spread it throughout the galaxy and it infects countless innocents. They purport to be protecting all of the rest of us from some kind of inexplicable evil, but we have not found one single explanation of what that evil is.”  
“Guess that’s why it’s inexplicable.” O’Brien smirked. Illiara glared at him.  
“We have found no evidence of the evil they say they fight, only evidence of their own tyranny and complete disregard for the laws of physics and morality.”  
“Morality?” Dax asked. “They defy morality because they live for more than one life?”  
“I know just what you’re getting at, Commander.” Illiara shook her head. “But no, it’s not the same. When a joined Trill passes from one life to another, their body dies away and their symbiont is passed on to a new host. The vessels die and live again in the same body. The use Substance 29 to obtain immortality, something which no being should have.” Sisko tried not to scoff too obviously.  
“There are times in most species’ history where immortality was all people strived for.”  
“And yet they did not obtain it.” Illiara spat. “Because they should not have it.”  
“Come now,” A’shorka snorted. “I thought we were here to discuss a danger to the galaxy, not engage in philosophical debate.”  
“May I ask,” Kai Winn said in a way that let everyone know she wasn’t actually asking permission. “Are you aware of the Bajoran legend of the Secret Warriors?” Kira shifted uncomfortably. Illiara shook her head.  
“Please, explain.”  
“There are writing in the Ancient Texts that speak of a group of eternal soldiers fighting an eternal war. Do you think that those writing might be connected to these ‘vessels’?”  
“I admit that I’m not familiar with much of Bajor’s religion, so I cannot give you a definite answer. However, I don’t think connecting the vessels with something in your spiritual texts is a good idea, Kai. Such things may lead you to be more lenient in deciding whether or not to support our fight against them.”  
“I see.” The Kai nodded once, made eye contact with Shakaar, and sat back in her chair.  
The sample of Substance 29 was writhing against the glass, pressing against different spots. It looked to Kira like it was searching for a weak spot. It must have looked like that to Haduak as well because he retrieved its containment cylinder and fixed it to the exit port on the machine. He input a command on the machine to draw out the sample and the dome was suddenly filled with a purple-colored substance. The Concordat all let out panicked noises and Haduak scrambled to close the machine’s port and step away.  
“What just happened?” Sisko asked as the purple substance dispersed. The sample writhed and curled in the dome and Kira got the distinct sense that it was… laughing.  
“That,” Haduak straightened his tunic. “Was a micro-singularity.” The room hushed. “Had we not been able to contain it, I am sure that the entire station may have been crushed.” He looked at the representatives and raised an eyebrow. “Are there any other questions?”


	5. The Consultation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for hanging in there guys

The conference dispersed. Most people returned to their quarters to draw up reports or deliberate amongst themselves. Sisko asked his senior staff to join him in one of the station conference rooms.

“Well,” Sisko sighed. “That certainly was a lot to take in.”  
“Have you decided how you’re going to vote, Captain?” Julian asked. Sisko shook his head.  
“I’d like all of your input. Odo? What’d you think?”  
“If something can be done about these ‘vessels’, it should.” The constable nodded. “Even if we didn’t know they were there before, we do now, and we cannot be expected to allow them to operate unchecked.” Sisko nodded thoughtfully.   
“Mr. Worf, what do you think?”   
“Warriors that cannot die in battle.” Worf sounded disturbed. “To have no chance at a glorious end, or at seeing the afterlife… That is a fate I would not wish on my most hated enemy.” Kira almost sighed. Her best suspect for who the Secret Warrior might have been, gone just like that. “I suggest caution, Captain. There is very little chance that these vessels are not suffering at the hands of Substance 29.” Wait. Did that mean he was empathizing with them? Because he was one of them? Kira’s head was starting to hurt.  
“Dax?” Sisko tilted his head.   
“The evidence certainly seems compelling.” The Commander furrowed her brow. “But I hesitate to make a judgment until I’ve handled a sample of Substance 29 myself. And I don’t like the way they dismissed questions about the enemy the vessels are supposed to be fighting against. Surely that’s worth exploring.” The complications of joined Trils becoming Secret Warriors aside, Dax just became her next best guess.  
“What about you, Chief?” Sisko nodded at the man. O’Brien sighed.  
“I can certainly see why the Dominion’s concerned. An enemy that just comes back after you kill it?” He shook his head. “I agree with Illiara. Just doesn’t seem natural.”  
“Dr. Bashir?” Sisko turned to him. Julian was quiet for a long time. Kira stared at him. Was… was he mulling over confessing? Or maybe he needed time to think of a way to defend himself and his people without exposing himself.  
“I don’t trust Illiara.” He said finally. “Call it a hunch, but I think she’s hiding something. For all we know, she’s targeting these ‘vessels’. I don’t know to what end, but…” He sighed. “Captain, I don’t think we have all the facts.” Sisko nodded again and turned to Kira.  
“Major,” He said. “What’d you think?”  
“I,” Her eyes darted around the room. “I think… That Julian’s right. We don’t have all the facts. We don’t have both sides of the story.”  
“Both sides?” Sisko raised an eyebrow.   
“We haven’t given the vessels a chance to defend themselves. No one should mount an offensive against someone if they don’t even know for sure that they’ve done something wrong. I say, we find a way to contact them. Speak with their leaders. Ask questions.” Sisko nodded again and the room was quiet for a few long moments. Then, someone spoke and Kira nearly fell from her chair.  
“I can get you in contact with the Vanguard, Captain.”   
Sisko looked up, startled.   
“Dr. Bashir?”   
“The Van—” Julian swallowed, eyes searching the faces of everyone in the room. Kira looked stunned. “The ‘vessels’ leaders. The Guardian Vanguard. I can get a message to them. Because I’m one of them. A… a vessel.” He looked down at the table. “The Vanguard know about Illiara and the Concordat. They’ve been trying to destroy us since their inception. I was contacted about two weeks ago about this meeting.”  
“How did the Vanguard know it would happen?” Dax asked. Julian looked up.  
“The Prophets.” He said and chuckled sheepishly. “The beings that live in the wormhole exist outside of linear time. They’re aware of all that is and all that can be. They sent a messenger here to warn me about the Concordat.”  
“To what end?” Sisko crossed his legs.   
“To…” Julian seemed to struggle for words. “To make sure I wasn’t blindsided by Illiara and her agenda. Their messenger explained that the council would be coming here and that they were going to speak of me like I was a monster.” He smiled. “That’s quite a difficult thing to hear, Captain.” Sisko looked Julian up and down.   
“Substance 29,” He said, inviting Julian to fill in the blanks.  
“It’s sort of… it’s very difficult to quantify.” Julian took a deep breath. “We call it the Light. There are Bajoran texts that call it the Prophet’s Fire.” Odo hummed.   
“That would explain why Kai Winn was so quick to dismiss the Concordat’s concerns.”  
“Julian,” Dax said. “How much of that report we just heard was falsified?”  
“Oh, none of it.” He shook his head. “It’s all true. Vessels—we call ourselves Guardians—are raised from the dead by machines that use the Light to heal our injuries as we engage in a never ending war with the forces of an incomprehensible evil called The Darkness. That’s another difficult-to-quantify substance by the way. But the Light uplifts and brightens. It makes people’s lives better. The Darkness only destroys.” He was speaking with an incredible kind of conviction. He truly believed what he was saying.   
“And,” Sisko said. “When exactly have you had time to go into battle, Dr. Bashir?”  
“Leave.” Julian shrugged. “My off-hours. I did have to cut out on duty because a Hive tombship was nearing Bajor, but only once. I fight alongside five others in a Fireteam called Mercy Delta.”  
“I’d like to meet them.” Sisko said plainly. Julian looked surprised. “And this… Vanguard. How many are there?”  
“Several hundred Guardians make up the entire Vanguard, but there are only 3 assigned to this part of space. I answer directly to them.”  
“Get me in touch as soon as possible.” Sisko said. Julian nodded. “I think Major Kira is right. You all should be allowed to explain yourselves.” He turned to her. “I don’t suppose that this has anything to do with the vision you had earlier this month?” Kira nodded slowly.  
“The messenger that visited Julian came to me too.” Again Julian looked positively taken aback. “I had no idea you were a Guardian, Julian.”  
“And I had no idea they’d spoken to you.” He blinked.   
“Doctor.” Worf said gruffly. “You said that some kind of ship had neared Bajor?” Julian looked for a moment like he didn’t understand what Worf meant.   
“Oh!” He said finally. “Yes. The Hive are… well, it’s difficult to explain the Hive, really. They spread through the galaxy claiming worlds in the name of their God-Kings. My Fireteam was dispatched to destroy one of their tombships before it could reach Bajor and attack. We did.” He spoke plainly, as if fending off invading forces with a team of six was normal.   
“Well,” Sisko huffed a laugh. “I suppose a thank you is in order.” Julian shook his head.  
“No. We were just doing our job. That’s all. Do you have any other questions?” He looked around. “I’m happy to answer. I really, really don’t want to have to leave the quadrant because of a misunderstanding.” Kira sat up immediately.   
“Explain why the Prophet’s Fire killed the test subjects.” Kira said abruptly. “Please, I want to understand. I thought the Fire was meant to help people.”  
“It is.” Julian sighed. “What we saw in that chamber were grenades, incendiary, arcbolt, and vortex. Grenades tend to kill things. Guardians weaponize the Light in our battle against the Darkness, but it can be applied in all sorts of ways.”  
“Including forming micro-singularities.” Odo commented. Julian looked… hurt for a moment, but continued anyway:  
“All of our outposts and ships are powered by the Light. It is what Ghosts use to heal their Guardians and to raise them from the dead. There are some people that use it to teleport themselves, just like a transporter. They admitted that they took that Light from a Ghost that they’d tortured, of course its Light manifested as something dangerous!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry, I just… That poor creature was only defending itself.”  
“It’s alright, Julian.” Dax said quietly. Julian smiled.  
“Thank you, Jadzia.” He looked around. “Thank all of you, really. I half expected to be chased out of here with torches and pitchforks.” Laughter rippled through the room.   
“Doctor.” Worf said gruffly. Julian looked at him. “I am concerned that some of our guests may be planning to harness the ‘Light’ for themselves. The Dominion and Romulans in particular. I would like to speak with you about how easy that would be for them.”  
“Of course.” Julian nodded. Odo spoke up:  
“How many other Guardians are present on the station, Dr. Bashir?”   
“Um,” Julian hesitate. There was a flash of something like fear in his eyes. “That’s not really my secret to tell, Odo.”  
“I understand the sentiment, Doctor, but in the interest of station security—”  
“It’s not sentiment. It’s protocol for Guardians stationed at non-Vanguard facilities not to discuss their numbers or organization with non-Vanguard personnel and certainly not each other’s identities. That protocol has protected us from enemy agents and organizations like the Concordat for years. It’s why our messenger didn’t tell Kira and me about each other. I can only say that there are other Guardians and Vanguard personnel on Deep Space 9.” He paused. “I’m sorry.” Odo merely sat back and scoffed. Julian looked at Sisko, as if waiting for an order to defy Guardian protocol. The Captain was tapping his fingers on the table top, face creased in concentration.   
“We certainly can’t ask you to break your rules of conduct, Doctor.”  
“Thank you, Captain.” Julian said quietly, his frame relaxing the slightest bit. Dax reached over and squeezed his hand. He repeated, even quieter, so that almost no one heard him: “Thank you.”


	6. The Conversation

Worf and Julian sat down a little while after the meeting dispersed. Worf seemed uneasy and stiff. He fidgeted like he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands, or where to look while facing Julian. Julian was suddenly filled with an incredible desire to run. Instead, he took a deep breath and asked what Worf wanted to know about weaponizing the Light.  
“How easy is it for Guardians to learn?” Worf asked.  
“Well, it depends on the Guardian really… it took me a year to figure out how to properly form a simple pulse grenade, but there are others who get such things down in a matter of hours. Then there are melee attacks, and other, subtler things. Guardians can control their own body temperature, generate personal cloaking fields, leap great distances, all kinds of things. Our most impressive abilities take a while longer to learn. There’s quite a lot of fanfare involved when a Guardian creates their first Ward of Dawn or goes into a Stormtrance for the first time… have I lost you?” Worf’s brow was more deeply furrowed than usual.  
“Not at all doctor. I am simply worried. As I said before, A’shorka and Lenset may be planning to take news of a powerful weapon back to Q’ronos and Romulus. If either of those two governments begin creating their own deathless armies, the conflicts that arise could get out of hand very quickly. Especially with the Klingon Empire mounting an assault on Cardassia.”  
“Guardians are an army of the chosen dead.” Julian explained. He pressed his hand to his chest and brought it forward. A little machine suddenly appeared above his palm. It was wearing a blue and black shell that matched the doctor’s uniform and its eyes glowed with a friendly warmth. It shook its body as if acclimating itself to the temperature of the room.  
“Hello.” She said. “I’m K’laka. How are you?”  
“I am…” Worf looked jarred. “… Fine.”  
“Oh.” K’laka looked him up and down. “I’m fine too.” She flew over to float behind Julian’s head.  
“K’laka is my Ghost.” Julian said.  
“It raises people from the dead.”  
“She raises me from the dead, when needed. Each Ghost assists one Guardian at a time. K’laka’s Light, her soul, is tied with mine. Unless I were destroyed permanently, she wouldn’t be able to heal or revive anyone else. Believe me, if we were able to heal all sick and injured everywhere, I’d be the first one to volunteer my own Light.”  
“I see.” Worf nodded. “And how do Ghosts select their Guardians?”  
“I chose Julian because he was brave and incredibly empathetic. I peered into his soul when he died and saw that he would make a good Guardian, and that we would get along together. That’s the most important part, you know? You—”  
“Died.” Worf blinked. It wasn’t a question. He looked as if it had never occurred to him that Julian had gone through the same process that the Vulcan on the monitor had. He’d died. And been raised from the dead. Julian shrunk back. Truthfully, he’d been hoping no one would bring it up. “You died, Doctor. When?” Worf hadn’t meant for that last part to sound like a demand, but it did anyway.  
“I um…” Julian cleared his throat. The panels on K’laka’s angular body rotated in alarm. She flew up to Worf’d face.  
“He does not have to tell you that!” She turned back to Julian. “You do not have to tell him that!! A Guardian’s death is their own! It is not a story told over drinks and it is certainly not the answer to an interrogation!”  
“K’laka.” Julian said quietly and reached out to grab the Ghost from the air. He cradled the little machine against his abdomen. She looked up at him, expression soft. “Please don’t yell at my friends.”  
“I’ll yell at whomever I want to, Julian.” She rolled her eye.  
“Sorry about that.” Julian told Worf.  
“No need.” He shook his head. “I did not consider how… inappropriate that question may have done. I did not mean to offend.”  
“Too right, you didn’t.” K’laka grumbled. Julian smiled fondly.  
“It’s alright Worf. Any other questions?”  
“What about the Ghosts themselves? Could Ghosts be created with the purpose of, for instance, creating Jem’Hadar soldiers that are even more formidable?”  
“Ghosts were created by the Travelers themselves. I doubt The Dominion has the power or ability to duplicate the process.”  
“I see.” Worf nodded. Julian took another deep breath.  
“We don’t suffer, you know?”  
“Hm?”  
“In the meeting, you said you were worried that Guardians suffered under the Light. We don’t. The Light is… it’s amazing, Worf. I wish everyone could feel its warmth, really… The orbs used in Bajoran rituals are concentrated motes of the Light and the experiences Bajorans have with them are amazing.”  
“Major Kira has told me about the orbs.” Worf nodded. “Apparently interacting with them is quite a profound experience.”  
“The Light is amazing.” Julian said distantly. He shook his head to clear it. “But, anyway, you wanted to know more about the Hive too?”  
“Yes. You mentioned that these people attempted to enter Bajoran space?”  
“They do that all the time.” Julian sounded annoyed. “It’s as if the High Court doesn’t have anything better to do with their time now that their King is dead. Most civilization retreat after losing a monarch, try and regroup and whatnot, but the Hive can’t seem to stop throwing ships at Bajor.”  
“Why specially Bajor?” Worf leaned forward, alarmed.  
“Intel suggests they want to get their hands on the Orbs. We don’t know what for but their plans are usually something along the lines of ‘Destroy all the Light touches’ so probably that.”  
“You speak very flippantly for someone who fights against these people.”  
“I know.” Julian sighed. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to make light of,” In his lap, K’laka giggled to herself.  
“Light.” She chuckled. Julian covered her face with his hand and she wriggled out of his grasp.  
“I don’t mean to make it sound less serious than it is, but it gets tiring. The Hive are relentless and unending. We kill their leaders, destroy their colonies, and they come back stronger and more powerful. The Darkness will not rest until we’re all…” He shivered. “Sorry.”  
“Emotional fatigue is something all warriors must deal with at some point, Doctor. We should not discount its affects simply because it is less evident than physical fatigue.” Julian smiled.  
“I appreciate that Worf. I guess I’m just feeling a little vulnerable right now.” He shrugged. “It’s good to know that I still have friends on the station.”  
“I do have another question, though.” Julian gave a sort of ‘go ahead’ gesture. “Why exactly are the Secret Warriors secret? It seems as if you would be able to do your job much more efficiently if you were allowed to operate in the open.” Julia nodded thoughtfully.  
“I think every Guardian eventually asks that question of themselves or their Ghosts or the Vanguard.” He glanced at K’laka and Worf thought for a moment that the two were communicating telepathically. K’laka moved to a spot between Worf and Julian and her body turned and twisted a bit before a bright beam light shot out of her eye. She played a series of short clips, all featuring different sets of Guardians facing different enemies. There were species on both sides that Worf didn’t recognize, weapons he’d never seen used. One scene that particularly fascinated him was that of a large, imposing figure who carried a shield almost as gigantic as himself using that shield to bash and blast away a Guardian. The Guardian was then swiftly avenged by a teammate before being resurrected by their Ghost.  
As the images played, and become more and more violent and harrowing, Worf found it harder and harder to keep watching. Yes, he was a seasoned warrior, and yes his people were likely one of the least squeamish people in perhaps their entire quadrant, but… that didn’t stop his stomach from tossing unpleasantly as he took in more and more clips of Guardians being torn apart and then sewn back together again to be torn apart again. He tried not to let the iscomfort show on his face, but K’laka stopped the recording anyway.  
“Worf,” Julian said quietly. “If you, a seasoned and ruthless Klingon Warrior cannot bare the site of routine enemy encounters by Guardians, I don’t see how the rest of the galaxy could be expected to feel any safer knowing these monsters were roaming around in the shadows, ready to leap out and tear someone’s head off.”  
“You’re saying it’s a secret in order to protect people?” Worf sounded perplexed because he was.  
“That’s the official story anyway. Though that secrecy seems in jeopardy now.”  
“I still don’t understand.” Worf shook his head. K’laka flew a little too close to his face and he moved back, grimacing. If she noticed, she didn’t seem to mind.  
“Let me put it another way.” Her body rotated in a way that somehow distinctly portrayed ‘at wits end’. “Guardian are people, Mr. Worf. They are people with lives and friends and families and every one of their Ghosts worries every day that that will be the day that their Guardian gets sentimental and stupid enough to tell their loved ones what they really are then they will lose those loved ones.”  
“How can you know that?”  
“Because she’s paranoid.” Julian rolled his eyes. K’laka turned to him quickly and shrieked:  
“I am a thousand years old!” Julian shrank back. “I know more than you about everything! Now hush!” She turned back to Worf. “When that happens, they lose their loved ones! They always lose them and they spend almost an entire forever being sad about it! They lose them because Illiara is right. Guardians should not be they go against all kinds of arbitrary laws of nature and morals and whatever. They are disgusting, unnatural creatures that crawl their way out of their own graves every day and then happily hop back into them again. They’re unnerving and strange and weird. You’re freaking out right now!” That was true, but if Worf was honest, it was more because some kind of floating resurrection machine was yelling at him than it was about Dr. Bashir being an undead soldier. She continued:  
“But this situation that we’ve found ourselves in is more about the secret being divulged and divulger being upset about it, Mr. Worf. This is about our secrecy being ripped from us without our consent and the trillions of people who are never going to look at the universe they live in the same way again. One depressed Guardian who’s lost someone because of their guardianship is a nearly immeasurable loss. Imagine if that happens to nearly all of them at once. Imagine something that is too big to count becoming even bigger, Mr. Worf. That is the situation we now find ourselves in. That is what our secrecy was supposed to keep us from.”  
“K’laka.” Julian wrapped a gentle hand around her chassis and pulled her toward him. The small machine was vibrating—quite literally—with rage and impatience. Worf was staring at the two of them, positively taken aback. He watch Julian sooth and coo at his Ghost, whispering to her that she didn’t need to be worried about him, that he knew she’d always be there to take care of him. Worf felt a little less unnerved by the machine that ripped people from their deaths. A little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u get the reference?


	7. The Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL WILL TELL ME IF YOU'RE GETTING BORED RIGHT LIKE THAT IS INFORMATION I NEED TO KNOW I'll throw in a firefight if you need me to

“Am I interrupting?” Dax walked up to the two of them, grinning like mad. She put a hand on Worf’s shoulder and he smiled almost imperceptibly, looking up at her with an intense love and admiration. Julian felt a little twinge of envy. Both of Worf, who got to feel that way for Jadzia, and for Jadzia herself, who got to have someone who looked at her that way. He mentally shook himself. He’d made great strides in moving on from his feeling for Jadzia, he wasn’t about to screw everything up now by letting his loneliness get the better of him.   
“I was just frightening Worf a bit.” He said in jest. Worf narrowed his eyes at the doctor.   
“I can certainly imagine that what we know so far about Guardians doesn’t… gel with a lot of Klingon theology.” She said gently, leaning against her lover and squeezing his shoulder supportively.  
“No, they do not.” Worf shook his head. “I cannot imagine that there are many Klingon Guardians.”  
“Oh,” Jadzia’s face lit up and she turned to Julian. “You know, that brings up an interesting point. Could someone become a Guardian against their will?”  
“And what if a Ghost chose someone who wasn’t predisposed to fighting?” Worf wondered. Julian nodded sagely and thought for a moment.  
“Well,” He began, only for K’laka to appear close to Jadzia’s face in a flurry of bright white specks and mechanical whirring.  
“Couldn’t happen.” She said. “A Ghost looks into the souls of the dead. Even the long dead, if a piece of them still clings to their remains. Most corpses are just corpses. No potential for Guardianship. Anyway, all Guardians have a predisposition for fighting for what they believe in, even if that fight was never physical in their first life. There are administrative Guardians.” Her shell went up at its pointed end for a moment in order to suggest a shrug. “You know, I hardly ever get to talk about these things. I guess there is at least one good thing about our precious secrecy being brutally violated.”  
“Dramatic.” Julian scoffed, only half-joking. K’laka rolled her eye.  
“For the record,” She said. “There are quite a few Klingon Guardians, especially operating in the Empire. Guardians happen where they happen.” She shrugged again. “But former soldiers are less likely to become Guardians. For one, people who have seen the devastation of war tend to embrace death more readily when it finally comes, so there’s no clinging. And for another, soldiers’ souls tend to be very tired.”  
“Maybe Klingons who didn’t make into Sto-Vo-Kor the first time around.” Jadzia mused.  
“Would having many deaths in many glorious battles get you a better spot?” Julian asked jokingly. Worf looked at him like he might test how ell K’laka could heal a broken nose. Jadzia took the opportunity to get another question in, walking around Julian to grab another chair and also shoot Worf a warning look.  
“So are a lot of Guardians people who have died recently?” She asked. K’laka giggled.  
“Oh no, not at all.” Julian shook his head. “The man we saw in that Concordat footage is probably much closer to the average length of burial.”  
“It’s better to raise someone who probably won’t come across their grandchildren.” K’laka said. “The Vanguard will usually station recently-dead Guardians far away from where they lived. But no one witnessed Julian death, so he was allowed to stay here.” She and Julian made eye contact for a moment, both of their faces flashing with a profound sadness. Jadzia thought that maybe they were both thinking that that wouldn’t be the case for long. Worf cleared his throat.  
“I should write up that report for the Captain.” He stood. “And perhaps I will speak with the Klingon representative. Thank you for the information, Doctor.” His eyes flicked toward K’laka, like he was considering thanking her too. In the end he just nodded. The front of her chassis dipped in the air in a returning gesture. Worf turned to Jadzia. She stood and tilted her head insistently, sticking out her cheek for him to kiss. He sighed and pecked that side of her cheek, receiving a warm smile in return.  
Once Worf was gone, Jadzia shifted a bit, leaning in closer to Julian and speaking softly.  
“Can I ask you about your resurrection?”  
“Um,” Julian cleared his throat. K’laka nuzzled up against the side of his head and he leaned into the touch. Jadzia pursed her lips.  
“I’m sorry if that’s over-stepping, I just,”  
“No, it’s alright.” Julian shrugged. “It makes sense that you’d be curious… More curious than the others. More comfortable too.”  
“I think any joined Trill would be more accepting of Guardians. We’ve live many lives too.” She smiled. “Hm… Are there joined Gaurdians?”  
“Only if the symbiont-thingy died too.” K’laka said.  
“It’s not a thingy, K’aka.” Julian chuckled.  
“It’s alright.” Jadzia smiled. “You seem to know everything about Guardianship.”  
“I’m a thousand years old.” K’laka’s shell spun proudly. “Julian is not my first Guardian and K’laka is not my first name. You get around, hear things, see things. I don’t know everything, surely no one does, but I can answer most questions.”  
“Are you old or young for a Ghost?”  
“That I can’t tell you. Some things are—blessedly—still secret.”  
“I see.”  
“Yep.” K’laka’s optic changed for a moment and Jadzia got the distinct impression that she was smiling.  
“But I can talk about…” Julian said quietly. “Well, we don’t call the first one a resurrection. That’s the word for routine Ghost revival. The first time is a Guardian’s Rebirth, but I can talk about it. If you really want to know.”  
“You don’t have to.” Jadzia shook her head.  
“No, you don’t.” K’laka insisted.  
“Not about my death.” Julian said. “That’s mine. But my Rebirth… Actually coming back to life…” He looked down at his hands. “Imagine when your foot falls asleep after you’ve cut off the circulation for a while. That pins and needles feeling… Only, all over your body. A thousand pins were pricking me all at once. It didn’t hurt really. I wasn’t in pain… But I did feel… restless. Like I needed to get up right away and run a marathon.” He looked up to see Jadzia staring at him in concentration, her brow furrowed, body leaning towards his, hands clasped. He smiled weakly. “But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do much of anything expect panic over this run I wasn’t going on.” He chuckled.  
“You were trying to move.” K’laka said. “All twitchy. I’d never risen anyone who still had this muscles, I thought something was going wrong.”  
“You did?”  
“Mmhmm. S’why I started saying all that stuff about how it was all going to be alright.”  
“I thought you were trying to comfort me!” Julian looked positively scandalized. Jadzia laughed.  
“I was!” K’laka chuckled. “But I was mostly trying not to freak out.”  
“You’re a thousand years old!”  
“So!? Do you know how big the galaxy is!? There are many, many things I have yet to experience Guardian!” The two of them dissolved into hysterics for a moment. Jadzia sat back and smiled. To think the Concordat was so afraid of these two, of this bond they shared. It seemed so silly.  
“Sorry, Jadzia,” Julian took a deep breath after a minute or so.  
“No problem at all.” She smiled. “Please,” She gestured for him to continue and he nodded and collected himself.  
“After the pins started to subside a bit… There was this… profound warming feeling,” He pressed his hands to his chest. “It started around my heart and radiated outward.” He ran his hands over his chest to his shoulders. “I had never experienced anything like it. It was warmth and contentment and peace just flooding over me. And I opened my eyes and there was this bright, blinding light.” He looked at K’laka. “And there was this funny little machine floating in the middle of my vision.” He smiled. “And it looked at me and said,”  
“Eyes up, Guardian.”  
“Eyes up?” Jadzia asked. K’laka turned to her.   
“It’s a common phrase in Guardian culture. It just means… pay attention, I guess? It’s meant to get your attention and direct it somewhere. To focus you. So Ghosts say it to their Guardians when they wake the first time.”  
“Okay.” Jadzia nodded. “So you weren’t scared?” She asked Julian. He shook his head.  
“I was hardly dead long enough to realize there was anything to be afraid of. And again, K’laka was there whispering how okay everything was.”  
“Lots of new Guardians are scared, though.” K’laka said. “There’s a woman on his Fireteam, Sherhara. I was traveling with her Ghost when she found her and…” Her chassis shook from side to side. She was shaking her head. “Poor thing screamed for about twenty minutes. She’d been dead for much longer than Julian, though.”  
“I’d like to meet your team.” Jadzia said excitedly. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m just so curious about all of this,” She gestured encompassingly. “It’s a like discovering a whole new civilization. You mentioned Guardian culture, K’laka. What does that mean? Are there Guardian traditions? Holidays? Of course there’s a history,”   
“Yes and yes.” Julian nodded, smiling brightly. “And if I didn’t have to get to work on transmitting Captain’s Sisko’s invitation to the Vangaurd I’d love to sit here and talk about it for hours. Becoming a Guardian allowed me to gain an entire new culture and, honestly, I’ve never met a better group of people to be apart of and be around. I’m sure Mercy Delta would love to meet you too.”   
The two of them said their goodbyes and parted ways, Jadzia heading back to the Ops, Julian heading to his quarters to set up a secure channel to his section’s Tower headquarters. On his way, he passed Major Kira and First Minister Shakaar. He’d expected them to be catching up after having been apart for so long. Or else, as he’d one heard it phrased, being “all gross and in love” somewhere less public.   
Instead, they were having a loud, animated argument. And from the looks of things, it wasn’t the kind of argument that allowed for kissing and making up afterwards. Julian watched for a few moments, weighing whether or not to intervene. If they got any louder, security might have been called.   
“Don’t.” K’laka whispered through their link, the two-way bond they shared as Ghost and Guardian, their souls entangled. “That’s their business. And anyway, you just know that it’s about you.” Julian sighed. She was probably right. He took a few steps toward the feuding couple anyway. He could feel K’laka’s disapproval pulsing at the back of him mind.   
“Fine!” Kira was saying as he got closer. “That is just fine, Shakaar.” And she turned on her heel and stomped off to Ops. Shakaar was left to let his shoulders slump in defeat and Julian resumed his B-Line to his quarters.


	8. The Major and The Captain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a lot of fun writing this chapter. Kira and Sisko's dynamic is one of my favorites on the show :3

Kira knew what she was in for when Sisko asked to see her after the meeting. She walked into his office stiff-backed and nervous and he looked at her the way a father looks at a child when they’re in trouble. It used to bother her when he looked at her with such affection and disappointment at the same time. But it had become something of a comfort these days. 

Well, when she wasn’t about to receive the dressing-down of her career.

"I know what you're going to say." She said quickly.  
"Oh I doubt that."  
"Sir,"  
"Nerys." He put a hand in the air. She pursed her lips and nodded. "I don't appreciate being lied to. And I believe you know that."  
"I do, sir."  
"And I would have preferred it if you had come to me immediately after a strange person seemingly waltzed onto the station, made contact with you, and then waltzed back off again without anyone noticing." He raised his voice a little at the end there. "But I believe you know that, too."  
"Yes, Captain." She nodded.  
"Okay." Sisko smiled warmly, trying to put his second in command—his friend—at ease. She smiled back. "So there's no need to discuss it. What I would like to discuss is what you think of this..." He gestured abstractly. "And what exactly did this Speaker tell you?" He waited patiently while Kira gathered her thoughts.

“I think that we need the Secret Warriors. From what Julian’s told me so far about the threats they face, I don’t think Bajor—or the Alpha Quadrant—would survive without them. The Prophets gave them to us—to all of us, not just Bajor—for a reason, Captain. And I think that that’s something you should consider as Star Fleet’s representative and as the Emissary.” She hoped her speech hadn’t sounded too rehearsed. Because she’d gone over it about ten times in her head on the way to Sisko’s office.  
The captain was quiet for a long time. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and rested his chin on his hands.  
“Dr. Bashir is contacting his… superiors in the Vanguard.”  
“I overheard him and his Ghost speaking with Daz and Worf earlier.” Kira said. Yes, right before she’d gone to see Shakaar in hopes of getting a bit of quality time with not only her lover, but someone who would no doubt agreed with her on matters of the Secret Warriors. But No. He had to be stubborn.  
She shook her head to clear it. One thing at a time, Kira.  
“Apparently,” She continued. “They lost a lot with the loss of their statute of secrecy.”  
“Only those at the conference know now.” Sisko furrowed his brow. Kira nodded.  
“They didn’t seem to think the Concordat would keep things quiet. And quite frankly I wouldn’t be surprised if Illiara was out at Quark’s right now, preaching the good word.” She shook her head.  
“Well, Quark can always have Odo throw her out for being a nuisance.” He couldn’t help but smile at the thought. He sat forward, leaning his elbow against his desk. “You know, Major, there’s something I just can’t seem to wrap my head around.” Sisko pushed himself out of his seat and began a slow pace back and forth behind his head. Kira watched him intently. “I’m having trouble imagining these Guardians even having an actual use. Oh sure, they say they’re working to protect the rest of us from some unknown evil. But that’s just it.” He looked at her. “It’s an unknown evil.”  
“You’re right.” Kira nodded. “And you’re not alone in think that, Captain. I’ve just spoke to First Minister Shakaar,” Hoo boy had she just spoken to First Minister Shakaar.  
“Oh?”  
“He’s… quite confident that the Secret Warriors aren’t actually a legitimate force in Bajoran theology. Only one group of prophecies were ever written about them and those prophecies aren’t exactly widely known or taught. Shakaar thinks Bajor should abandon the Secret Warriors.”  
“I can only imagine how much you disagree.” Sisko resisted laughing.  
“If he fights the Kai on this matter, the Emissary might have to intervene.” Kira gestured to him and Sisko nodded.  
“The first thing I’m going to do is speak with this Vanguard. At the very least I want to be aware of whatever the threat the ‘Darkness’ poses.”  
There was a knock at the door and the two of them exchanged a confused look.  
“Come in.” Sisko said and went to sit back down. He froze when the door swung open and a masked figure in white and grey robes strode into his office. Kira stood.  
“Hello, Captain.” The Speaker said, voice muffled behind their headdress. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I thought we could talk.” They turned to Kira. “It’s nice to see you again, Kira.” Kira nodded in response. Sisko took a deep breath and mulled over his options.


	9. The Call

“But I don’t want to.” Cayde-6 sighed. He crossed his arms. Cayde was an Exo, a humanoid android originally created by some long-forgotten race to serve as warmachines. Now they lives where they lived and did what they pleased. Cayde was a blue-green and grey mech with blue optics and a horn-like protrusion on his forehead. His blue plating glinted in the limited light of the Vanguard War Room after hours. He was average height, for an Exo, which made him taller than the average human but shorter than say, a Klingon. He’d been a Guardian for nearly fifty years before being chosen as a Vanguard. And now he had been summoned out of his bed in the middle of the night and rushed to the War Room to discuss a message from a Guardian stationed on the edge of his area of responsibility. And he wasn’t even one of his Guardians!  
There were three classes of Guardians, all of whom wielded the Light in different ways. Titans were heavy hitters, “tanks” if you will. They channeled the light through their bodies and used it to either attack or defend in full force. Hunters were much the opposite, channeling the Light through objects for the purpose of stealth and reconnaissance. Warlocks fell somewhere in the middle. They channeled and manipulated the Light in its raw form and everyone knew that if the fate of galaxy didn’t depend on them being in combat, they would all stay holed up in libraries and archives for their entire second lives. 

The other Vanguard officers assigned to that area, Ikora Rey and Zavala, were there too, just as tired and grumpy-looking. Except they were not also glaring at Cayde for his outburst. The Guardian on their com channel, a warlock named Julian, sputtered and shook his head.  
“Vanguard,” He said. “The Concordat is very serious about what they’re planning. They have some of the most powerful governments in the quadrant on their side, not to mention a diplomat from The Dominion.”   
“The Dominion.” Cayde said snidely. “I hate those guys.”  
“No one likes the Dominion, Cayde.” Zavala sighed. He was an Awoken, one of the first races to be touched and nearly destroyed by the Darkness. They all had skin and hair in varying shades of blue, purple, and green. Zavala was a large man with bright blue skin and eyes that refracted light like stars. He shaved his head (because he’d managed to reach a point in his long life where he was beginning to go bald, not that he’d admit it to anyone while sober) but his eyebrows were a deep, dreamy blue. He was the oldest among the three of them, having been alive to witness the fall of the Iron Lords—the first Guardians—and then the establishment of the Vanguard. He’d only become Commander of the Titans in this sector relatively recently. Cayde leaned against his shoulder and made a high-pitched wining sound. The commander sighed and turned back to the com screen.   
“Guardian, do you know if the Concordat has the resources to make good on their promise to attack?”  
“No, sir.” Julian said regretfully.   
“It wouldn’t matter,” Ikora sighed. There weren’t many human Guardians, at least not compared to the numbers of other species, but Ikora Rey was one; a Black woman with piercing, decisive brown eyes. She kept her hair in a short buzz, tight coils close to her scalp. Ikora held herself with a sort of regal and elegant repose, even while standing in her dressing gown at far-too-early-in-the-morning. She’d served as a lone sentinel in her home sector for centuries before becoming a Vanguard and had served in the War Room longer than Cayde or Zavala. “The Light cannot go where it is unwanted.”  
“I realize that, Ikora,” Despite the words, there was no animosity in Zavala’s voice. “But we would still need to be prepared should some kind of offensive be planned.” Ikora nodded thoughtfully.   
“What exactly does the Captain wish to discuss?” She asked Julian. Her eyes flicked to Cayde’s slumped-over form. “Once we arrive on his station because the three of us will be going there.” Cayde sighed dramatically.  
“Yeah, I know.” he straightened up. “It was worth a shot though.” He shook himself a bit in effort to will the tiredness from his frame. “What say you, Guardian?”  
“Well, I really don’t know.” Julian said. His Ghost floated into the frame.   
“From what I could tell,” Kl’aka said. “Captain Sisko seemed to want you to explain the Light the way the Concordat did, except without scaring the tar out of everyone.”  
“That could work.” Julian nodded. “Or perhaps an explanation or demonstration of Guardians’ importance to the safety of the quadrant. The Captain would never want innocent people put at risk. He’s very protective.”  
“Write up a full report, Guardian.” Cayde said. “I want everything you have on this guy. His Star Fleet file, your personal assessment of his temperament, his favorite color. Never go into battle without the proper intel.”  
“Good idea, Cayde.” Ikora nodded. “And you’re sure that the decision rests with Sisko alone?”  
“That’s certainly what we were all led to believe.” Julian said. “The Klingons, Breen, and Dominion think we’re out to get all of them and should be dealt with. Kai Winn and First Minister Shakaar have gone back to Bajor to deliberate and probably consult the Orbs. I expect they’ll have a decision soon. ”  
“Can’t imagine them rejecting us.” Cayde said thoughtfully. “Folks on Bajor are almost closer with the Prophets than any of us are with the Travelers. ‘Cept maybe the Speaker.” Julian nodded. “What about the others at the conference?”  
“The Romulans are convinced there’s no real danger, the Tholian rep was quiet but I think they’re formulating a way to keep us out of Tholian space just so they can be left alone like always.”  
“I’ll draft an address,” Ikora said. “Informing the Assembly that only Tholian Guardians are active in their space anyway. What about the Ferengi?” She wrinkled her nose.   
“No word yet, but I suspect Gomra is thinking up a way to squeeze some kind of profit out of this whole situation. Otherwise Ferenginar will likely remain neutral.”  
“A side must always be taken, Guardian.” Zavala said gravely. Cayde chuckled.  
“Let’s just hope we don’t have to send Ikora down to convince the Negas.” He bumped her with his elbow and Ikora rolled her eyes. Julian continued:  
“At any rate, the Speaker believes that Captain Sisko will be the key to winning this disagreement.”  
“Mm.” Cayde nodded. “Just to be safe, though, get me info on the cultures of the other reps. Broad strokes, not too much work. We’ll see what sensibilities we can appeal to.”  
“Of course, Vanguard.”   
“I’ll put together an escort team.” Zavala said. “The Concordat can be… unpredictable.” Zavala’s least favorite word.   
“Vanguard,” Julian said hesitantly. Zavala nodded at him. “I don’t think that would be strictly necessary… Station Secruity would be more than happy to keep the Concordat in line and I really don’t think a show of force would be taken very well.” He paused. “But that’s just me.”  
“You’re the one on the ground, Guardian.” Ikora said. “You know more than any of us.”  
“We’ll dress ‘em up.” Cayde said, clapping a concerned Zavala on the back. “Make it look like we’re just traveling in style. Nothing to worry about.” Zavala nodded.  
“Good idea Cayde… I’ll want your Fireteam present too, Guardian. I’ll prepare a briefing for you all, and the other Guardians living on your station.”  
“Of course, Vanguard.” Julian nodded. In the background, his Ghost was already contacting his team. Ikora hummed.  
“And I’ll bring along any materials we might need to defend ourselves: studies on the Light, logs of world-saving Strikes. The defense of Bajor should be useful…” She continued on for a few moments, getting quieter and quieter until she was murmuring to herself about what they would need. As always, the lowered volume was taken as a signal that it was alright to continue to conversation without her:  
“Don’t worry, Guardian.” Cayde said. “We’ll get Captain Sisko to see The Light.” He smiled wryly. Julian chuckled. Zavala let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.   
“Try and get us those reports as soon as possible.” He said to Julian. “Once we have the information we need, we’ll get to work setting a date for this meeting. For now, tell Captain Sisk that the Vanguard is looking forward to meeting him, and to defending ourselves.” Julian nodded. Ikora suddenly broke out of her planning stupor smile absently.  
“And tell Illiara I said ‘Hi’.”


	10. The Emmisaries

“Please,” Sisko said, gesturing the chair next to Kira. The Speaker bowed their head.  
“Thank you, Captain.” They took a step forward. “Oh, or do you prefer another name?”  
“Captain will do.” Sisko said gruffly. The Speaker nodded.  
“You may call me Speaker.” They sat down and Bastion appeared in a flurry of glittering light.  
“Hi Kira!” He smiled.  
“Hello, Bastion.” She nodded. “Speaker. Maybe I should go?” She glanced at Sisko.  
“I would rather you here.” The Speaker said. Then they looked at Sisko. “But this is your office, Captain.”   
“I think I’d like you to stick around, Major.” Sisko said as he sat back down. Kira nodded stiffly.  
“Thank you for welcoming me, Captain.” The Speaker said as they settled into the chair next to Kira. “How are you?” Sisko almost laughed.  
“If it’s all the same to you I’d rather skip the pleasantries when speaking with someone who’s snuck onto my station to rally members of my crew without my knowledge.” Maybe he was being dramatic, but if anyone who could get onto the station without his or Odo’s knowledge, they all had something to worry about. The Speaker was quiet for a moment, then they cleared their throat behind their mask.  
“Captain, I can assure you that I would never violate the protocol of any place I visit in an official capacity. As the Speaker, I speak for the Travelers and I represent my people. I cannot afford to go about breaking simple regulations when on missions of diplomacy.”  
“I see.” Sisko nodded. “And you were permitted onto the station… dressed like this? Without showing your face?”  
“It’s a religious headdress, Captain.” Kira interjected. “Star Fleet protocol would have protected their right to wear it.” She thought for a moment. “Though I doubt Odo would have let someone in a mask onto the station without alerting you.”   
“I was off-duty when I boarded your station.” The Speaker explained. “I only veil my face when serving as the Speaker.”  
“I see.” Kira nodded. That didn’t exactly absolve them of all suspicion, but it was something. She and Sisko could both speak with Odo later.  
“Why keep your identity a secret?” Sisko asked. “Why not speak out in the open?”  
“It’s traditional for the Speaker to give up their personal identity when on-duty. When I’m at headquarters, it allows me a sort of anonymity. Image, Emissary, if you were stationed on Bajor, in the heart of highly-devote community who worshiped the Prophets. How much work do you think you’d get done every day?” Sisko allowed himself a chuckle. He smiled and shook his head.  
“Almost none at all.” He said. “I see your point. You said you have protocol for going on diplomatic missions. Do you do this often?”   
“The Concordat makes it seem like the Secret Warriors were completely secret from the rest of the galaxy.” Kira said. The Speaker nodded.  
“We come out of the shadows occasionally.” They said. “Only when it is necessary. And there are some systems where we walk completely openly.”  
“The Eliksni system is one.” Bastian said. Kira had almost forgotten he was there, floating just behind the Speaker’s head. He turned to Sisko. “I have a video clip I can show you about them if you have questions about what the Darkness does to people.”  
“Actually, I did have some questions about,” Sisko sat forward in his chair. The Speaker cleared their throat again and raised a gentle hand.  
“If I might, Captain? My coming here today had a very specific purpose.” Sisko sat back in his chair again, narrowing his eyes a little, partly in disappointment. “I am not here entirely of my own volition.” The Speaker explained. “The Travelers which to discuss matters with you, Captain and are asking for an audience.” There was a moment of stunned silence from Kira and Sisko. The Speaker continued:  
“They don’t really… understand time so it’s difficult to get them to make an appointment, but the two of us can arrange something and then,”  
There was a flash of light, then.   
The room shook.   
Kira felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Sisko felt a now-annoyingly-familiar tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He sighed and screwed his eyes shut for a moment. The station seemed to lurch. When he opened his eyes again, most of the color had been sucked out of the room and he was standing in Ops, surrounded by different members of his crew. And the Speaker. And there were two Kiras? He looked around, confused. He’d never shared one of his visits from the Prophets before.  
“What’s going on?” Kira asked, startled, staring at… herself? Standing stiffly near Dax’s console. She felt sick again, body lurching forward. The Speaker put a hand on her back.  
“I don’t believe the Prophets make appointments either.” They said. Kira’s voice rang out. The other Kira.  
“You are interfering with The Sisko.” She said.   
“I don’t understand.” The Speaker said, still holding onto Kira to steady her.  
“I think it’s passing.” She whispered, looking around the room in absolute awe. “Is this… Am I?... I’m really in the presence of the Prophets?” She asked quietly.   
“Yes, Major.” Sisko nodded. He turned to the constructs: Kira, Odo, Dax, and Worf were all walking toward them, glaring at the Speaker.  
“You do not belong here.” ‘Worf’ said. “This Game belongs to The Sisko.”  
“Ah.” The Speaker nodded. “I see. Forgive me, Exalted Ones.” He knelt one knee and bowed his head low for a moment. “But your siblings bring me here at their behest. They have their own Game to play.” Kira knelt with him for a moment, trying to take her eyes off the constructs and failing.  
“Game?”  
“It’s how they refer to reality.” The Speaker explained. “Spoken language isn’t one of their strong suits either.” They stood up straight and Kira followed. They turned back to the Prophets: “I assure you that my mission here will not interfere with the Sisko’s Game.”  
“This isn’t a game!” Sikso shouted. “This is the fate of Bajor, this quadrant, and perhaps even the entire galaxy!”  
“It’s just their turn of phrase, Captain.” The Speaker said, trying to sound soothing.   
“What exactly do the Prophets have to say about all this, hm?” Sisko asked them. “How should I advise the Kai?” ‘Dax’ stepped down from her place near a communications console.  
“The Sisko must remain in place for the Game to continue.”  
“We have to intention of removing him.” The Speaker said quietly. “I assure you, Exalted Ones.” All of the constructs turned to them then, and spoke at once:  
“We are not you Exalted Ones, dead thing. You do not exist. You have stopped existing.” The Speaker took a half step back. Behind their head, Bastion cowered, his whole frame shaking. He was gone in an instead, disappearing into a flurry of light to wherever he stayed when not floating around his Guardian’s head. Kira’s brow furrowed.   
“The Prophets created the Secret Warriors, didn’t they?” She asked before she could think better of it. All of the constructs turned to look at her at once and she jumped.   
“They don’t play the Game by the rules.” They said at once. “They exist where they shouldn’t. Dead things. Dead power. Come to kill.”  
“The Travelers are not the Pagh Wraiths!” The Speaker’s voice was a little angrier than maybe it should have been. “They are not the Worm of the Deep and they are not here to harm you or Bajor!” They took another step forward and their foot fell onto soft grass instead of the metal floor of Ops.


	11. The Travelers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello i am still here

The Travelers

And then they were in a grove of blue-green grass, surrounded by skinny, person-height trees. Some bore fruit, others had nothing but leaves or flowers. There were benches and seating areas between the trees, tables with game boards, a sand pit for children to play in lay off to one side.   
“What just happened?” Kira asked, whirling around. Sisko seemed just as bewildered as she was.   
“Where are we?” He asked, and looked at the Speaker accusingly. The grove was in full color. If anything, the colors were too bright, over-saturated and saccharine. Like a painting. The Speaker took a deep breath, taking in their surroundings with a wispy sort of longing and nostalgia that was evident even through their mask.   
“I believe that Travelers have whisked us to this place.” They said.  
“I don’t understand.” Kira said. “Is… Captain, is that how the Prophets speak to you all the time?”  
“When it suits them.” Sisko might have snapped if he hadn’t been talking to Kira of all people.  
“Why did they look like the crew?” She asked. Sisko shook his head.  
“They always appear as people from my past.” He said. “The first time I spoke with them, right after I came to Deep Space 9, they appeared as my wife, Jennifer.”  
“They don’t have physical forms.” The Speaker said. “Not the way we do. When they come to us, they use images of the familiar. Places and people that make us feel at home, just like the crewmember constructs we were speaking to before.” The Speaker explained and began walking, wandering through the grove like they were visiting an old friend. Sisko and Kira followed. Close behind. The Speaker reached up and touched a delicate pink flower with star-shaped petals. “Sisko feels at home in Ops and I feel at home here, in the Tower Gardens.” They picked the flower and its petals sparked. “This flower grows on my home world in the Delta Quadrant.”  
“You’re a long way from home.” Kira said, taking the flower. It felt warm, and pulsated with some kind of energy.  
“I died on my homeworld, but after my resurrection, I went where the Vanguard stationed me. When I was chosen as Speaker, I went where the Travelers asked me to.”  
“So the Vanguard gives Guardians orders,” Sisko said. “But it’s really the Travelers who are in charge?”  
“It’s not unlike the relationship the Council of Ministers on Bajor have with the Prophets. I doubt First Minister Shakaar would consciously defy the Will of the Prophets, certainly not if they spoke with him directly.”  
“Hm.” Kira hummed, thoughtfully. That was a good point. Maybe she should speak with him again? With less shouting this time…   
The Speaker’s attention was suddenly on something over Sisko’s shoulders.   
“Ah.” They said simply. Kira and Sisko turned to the spot they were looking at. There, they found a young girl with pale skin and compound eyes that shined iridescently when she blinked. Her bright pink hair was tied in twin braids down her back. She rocked back and forth on her heels, chewing her thumbnail.  
“You honor us, Exalted One.” The Speaker knelt on one knee again and Kira joined him. They bowed their heads low. Sisko nodded warily. “I was not expecting we would see you or your Family today. As I told you before, this is my friend, Kira Nerys, she’s helping us.” The girl waved. Kira smiled. The girl came over to kneel with them in soft grass and Kira and the Speaker shifted to sit cross-legged. The girl looked up at Sisko, her head lolling all the way backwards.  
“Hi.” She waved. “My family’s mad at me. They don’t like to share.”  
“And what are they sharing?” He asked. “Me? Bajor?”  
“Yes.” She said and looked back at the Speaker and Kira.   
“This Traveler is taking the form of my niece.” The Speaker explained. “You’re Larertev.” She nodded.  
“You like to give us names.” She said. “You think that something doesn’t exist until it has a name. But we exist before names. We exist after them too. We didn’t name the Ghosts. That was you.”  
“It was us too.” Bastion was back suddenly. “Hi Mom.”  
“And you give us titles.” She lay back in the grass, stretching out her thin arms, petting the turf beneath her. Sisko sat down beside Kira. The two of them exchanged a look. “I’m sorry we got you in trouble.” Larertev said. “I’m sorry we got everyone in so much trouble.” She sat up on her elbows. “We thought that being secret would be safer. We made you lie to everyone.” She flopped back down onto her back. “And now everyone’s mad at everyone else.”   
“Is there something you need us to do about it?” The Speaker asked. She looked at them, face suddenly serious, eyes intense.   
“There is something we need you to know.” She said and then was gone. The Speaker sighed. Kira got the idea that communicating with gods was never very easy.  
“I’ll say one thing.” Sisko said quietly. “The Travelers are nothing like the Prophets.”   
“The Prophets and Travelers are all members of the same species.” The Speaker said. “They all exist outside of linear time, have the ability to bend reality as we corporeal beings understand it. It’s true they are all part of sort of hive minds within their own communities but they are still individuals. I doubt every human is the same as you, Captain.” Sisko nodded.  
“It’s difficult to think of them as people.” He said. Something about that statement stung Kira. She grimaced slightly at the unnerved feeling in her chest. The Prophets weren’t people, were they? They were gods. More powerful and wise than any person could be. Her face must’ve twisted in through because she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.  
“Kira?” The Speaker asked. “Is something wrong?”   
“No.” She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, the over-saturated blue-green grove had been replaced with a pastel-washed grave site on Bajor.


	12. The Friendly Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're only a little ways into the story, but Things are Happening. I'm really happy :)

Kira blinked and suddenly they were no longer in the Tower Garden. Suddenly they were standing in a grassy knoll on Bajor. Kira barely had to look around before she realized where they were.  
“What’s this?” Sisko looked around. There was a Bajoran grave off to one side of the knoll, beneath a cliff face and covered in flowers.  
“My father’s grave.” Kira whispered.  
“Is this a good place?” A voice asked and the three of them whirled around to see a Bajoran man standing nearby. He was tall, and a little portly. His left arm was amputated at the elbow.  
“Furel.” Kira said.   
“We thought it was good but there is pain here too.” He said. “Furel is a good face, but there is pain too. Warlocks say Travelers are more complex than Guardians but you hold some much inside you. You exist in pain and in happiness at the same time. You carry it with you.”  
“Hello Exalted One.” The Speaker said quietly. He didn’t kneel this time, but did bow his head. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”  
“I see you every time you are with us.” Furel said as he stepped toward Kira. He reached out to her and took her hand. Kira stood stiffly, putting as much effort as possible into not looking afraid. “You want us to be more.” Furel said. “You want us to be big and incomprehensible. But we’re not.”  
“What?” Kira asked quietly.   
“And we are.” Furel stepped close to her and took her hand in both of his, squeezing gently. “The Prophets, my family, love you, Kira. They love Bajor and want to take care of it. That’s why they’re mad at us. They think you can’t play more than one Game at a time. But you can. You can know something and something else at the same time.” Kira nodded.   
“I understand.” She said, tears threatening behind her eyes.   
“I’m glad one of us does.” Sisko said quietly. The Traveler looked at him.  
“You’re upset. The Prophets poke at your world and prod you into doing their will. You feel like you don’t have a choice. But you do have a choice, The Sisko, you always have a choice. And you always make the right one. That’s what makes you The Sisko. It’s who you are. It’s what you’re made of.” He looked back at Kira and smiled, squeezing her hands one more time before letting go. There was a warmth inside Kira, spreading outward from her very core, painting her insides with a kind of happiness that made her tremble. A few tears let loose, jumping from her eyes as if the energy building inside of her had flung them into the air.  
“Thank you.” He said. “For wanting to work with The Sisko for us. You didn’t have to. You still don’t have to. But you are, aren’t you?”  
“Yes.” Kira all but whispered. She wiped her eyes and the Speaker came up to her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. She smiled reassuringly, but she has a feeling that they understood exactly how she was feeling, that maybe they had even experienced the bursting warmth that was dancing inside her chest.   
“That’s why you were chosen.” He said. “It’s what you’re made of.” Sisko cleared his throat. And Furel looked at him.

“Why are the Prophets upset with the Guardians interfering with the “Game”?” Sisko asked indignantly. “Don’t they know how this all turns out?”  
“Yes.” Furel nodded. “We know all that can be. Every possibility and every path that could ever lead to those possibilities. The Prophets have a plan. They see everything that would ever lead to that plan being a success. And they see everything that could ruin it. Trillions upon trillions of possibilities, all tied together by single moments of chance and choice.” The Speaker stepped up behind Kira and whispered,  
“Incomprehensible enough for you?” There was the hint of a laugh in their voice and Kira smiled. These were her gods. She just hadn’t met any of them in person yet.   
“They see the paths that are best.” Furel continued. “The ones that they need to lead their people down and they get upset when they feels their paths are ignored. They are the paths that lead to the best.”  
“Yes.” Worf’s voice rang out from behind Sisko. The Prophet’s construct stepped forward, walking up too close to Furel, who just smiled. “And you have placed your people on our path. You are not playing by the rules of The Game.”  
“Our Game is just as important as yours.” Furel said, not bothering to stand back. Kira looked between them, suddenly afraid. There were stories and prophecies from every culture that detailed clashed between gods. Was she about the witness one?  
“Do not interfere with The Sisko.”  
“We are not interfering with him. We don’t want to.”  
“Your Game interferes with ours.”  
“It is does not.”  
“The dead things will not interfere with the Sisko.”   
“No, they won’t.” Furel smiled again and shrugged. “Do you know what that means?” He shrugged again, more exaggerated this time. “Guardians do it when they are tired.” He shrugged again. “When the Light is heavy and their shoulders hurt and they just want to go home.” And once more. “There is too much for them. And there is too long. Everything we do is the same, so we do not understand. They need us to try.”  
“The Game will be played.” Worf stepped forward, not quite antagonistically.   
“The Game will always be played.” Furel sounded exasperated. “But The Guardians and The Sisko are players, not pieces. No one on your side of the field has ever understood that.”   
“That is not true!” Worf took a half step back, aghast. Kira almost laughed. She’d never seen the Klingon so insulted before. “We give the Sisko the pieces he needs.” Furel looked at him for a long time. Kira became creepily aware of how quite the knoll was. There were no bird calls or insects buzzing, she couldn’t hear the stream babbling a few meters away. There were no people off in the distance. She could hear her own breathing, her own heartbeat, that of Sisko and the Speaker. The Traveler and Prophet didn’t seem to need to breath. Or maybe they just weren’t bothering to move their constructs that way? She wanted to ask. Furel finally spoke:  
“So do we.”   
There was a bright flash of light. Kira felt sick again.


	13. The Blood Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late posting this!! I love you all! *kisses*

Miles missed their holosuite appointment. Julian sat in Quarks sending him messages for the better part of twenty minutes. He went to his quarters and spoke with a confused Keiko. Apparently she thought he was with Julian at Quarks.  
“You don’t think something’s happened do you?” She asked, Yoshi balanced on her hip, Molly behind her with her crayons spread across the coffee table.  
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” Julian said, voice tinged with sadness.   
“I know he was shaken up after that conference.” Keiko said. “You were there, right? Scary stuff.”  
“Scary?”  
“Well, yeah, I mean,” She glanced at the baby. He was too young to understand. She glanced at Molly. She didn’t seem to be paying attention to them. She leaned in and spoke quietly anyway. “Soldiers that rise from the dead? And I thought the Jem’Hadar were frightening.”  
“Yes.” Julian nodded. “The idea is a bit disturbing, isn’t it?”   
“I honestly don’t even want to think about the possibility of one of those people living here on the station. The way Miles described that video you all saw.” She shivered. “But if you really can’t find Miles, I can see if I can get him on coms.”  
“No, no, I’m sure he’s just...” Hiding from me, his brain helpfully supplied. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find him.” He smiled and said a silly goodbye to Yoshi before leaving.

He did find Miles. At their usual table at Quark’s, nursing an Irish coffee.  
“May I?” Julian asked, gesturing to a seat next to O’Brien that he used to be able to drop into whenever he wanted. No permission needed to pat his friend on the back and launch into a discussion of their workloads or the O’Briens’ family life, or their next holodeck adventure. O’Brien shrugged. Julian sat down uncomfortably. They sat in silence for a few moments before Quark wandered over to ask for Julian’s order. The Ferengi was scanning the room, looking at once annoyed and wary.  
“Something wrong, Quark?” Julian’s voice practically croaked.  
“You just missed them, Bashir.” He shook his head. “Some kind of radical fanatics marched in here and started scaring out all the costumers with,” He struggled for words.  
“Let me guess.” Julian sat back and cocked his head to one side. “Vicious, terrifying tales of undead soldiers even more fierce than the Jem’Hadar, who break the laws of nature and who could bring Klingon Empire to its knees if they wanted to?” He was vaguely aware of O’Brien shifting uncomfortably in his seat, looking him up and down. In his head, K’laka warned him about that stubborn, self-destructive streak of his.   
“You just can’t seem to let yourself be happy.” She said. Meanwhile, Quark was looking exasperated.  
“Don’t tell me they came to the medical bay too? I tell you, Doctor, I’ve never been so happy to see Odo in my life.” He paused. “Don’t tell him I said.”  
“Oh, Mum’s the word.” Julian waved it off casually.  
“Well, anyway, what can I get for you?”   
There was a short pause.   
Julian, genius that he was, got an idea into his head.  
K’laka sighed the longest and most long-suffering sigh she had ever sighed in all of her one thousand years.  
“Julian.” She said. “You will regret this.”  
“Oh, nothing for me, thanks.”   
“And end the sentence there, Guardian.”  
“We undead warriors don’t really need sustenance to continue with our plans of galactic terror.” He smiled. Quark stared at him.  
“You know, Dr. Bashir,” He said finally. “You’re not a very funny person.” Julian only shrugged. “You want something to drink or not?”  
“I’ll be fine.”  
Quark walked away shaking his head. There was a short pause. O’Brien looked at Julian, unblinking, scrutinizing his every feature. Julian stared back, jaw clenched, back stiff. Several agonizing minutes passed. When the silence was finally broken, it was by O’Brien’s gruff and annoyed voice. He leaned forward, furrowed his brow and barked,   
“So this is some kind of joke to you, is it?”  
“Since when do you care about scaring Quark? If anything, I thought you’d be laughing with me.” Yeah, right. He’s _afraid _of you, you freak.  
“I don’t think any of this is very funny!” O’Brien hissed. Actually hissed, spoke through his teeth. Julian shifted in his seat like he was afraid his friend might leap across the table at him, lunging like an angry snake. “You don’t even care do you?” He accused.  
“What?”  
“You’ve lying to me for who knows how long and you don’t even care. I thought we were friends! Best friends.”  
“We are!” Julian said a little too loud. Maybe Quark’s wasn’t the best place to having this conversation. He took a deep breath. “Miles, we are friends. I care quite deeply about you. But you have to understand, I couldn’t tell you about,”  
“About dying?” O’Brien rolled his eyes and slammed the rest of his drink. Julian watched him signal Quark for another and he realized that O’Brien was avoiding looking him in the air. Quietly, in the back of his mind, K’laka whispered:  
“Maybe we should leave?” Julian shook his head.  
“I died before I came to Deep Space 9.” He said quietly. O’Brien looked at him strangely. Leeta stopped short on her way to give O’Brien his next drink. She looked at Julian strangely and he smiled weakly. She set O’Brien’s Irish coffee down and walked away quickly. O’Brien chuckled. The sound was broken and hollow.  
“Probably upset about having slept with a corpse.”  
“Probably.” Julian shrugged.  
“Guardian.” K’laka scolded. “If you slip into that silly self-loathing streak of yours, I will give you such a pinch.” Julian sighed.   
“I suppose I know when I’m beat.” He said.  
“What?” O’Brien furrowed his brow.  
“Oh, sorry,” Julian touched his ear. “My Ghost can speak to me in my mind. A little voice, always with me, telling me who I need to kill.”  
“You’re being dramatic.” K’laka groaned. “And making me sound like a dragon.” Julian smiled.  
“She thinks I’m going to hate myself after this conversation.” He laughed. “It’s funny because that implies I didn’t already hate myself.”   
“Well,” O’Brien shrugged. “At least you’re self-aware enough for that.” Ow. Ow. K’laka said something, railing angrily against the man sitting across from her Guardian. Julian didn’t hear. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He bounced his leg under the table, desperately stimming to balance out the flood of emotions pouring over him from the inside out—shock, grief, pain, sorrow, all tinged with a streak of anger, running through him like lightning—he blinked a few times, willing tears back. O’Brien sat there, drinking. Julian tried to blame what he’d said on the alcohol. He looked down at his hands, at his thumbs. A section from the Guardian’s Grimoire kept running through his head.   
An ancient Guardian had had a vision of the Vex’s holy place, a forest unstuck in time. A place of Darkness, the Black Garden.   
In the Garden, a flower had bloomed in the shape of a Ghost, the only being any Guardian could ever really trust. The Ghost said to the Guardian,__

___You are a dead thing  
Made by a dead power  
In the shape of the dead  
And all you ever do  
Is kill. ____ _

____Julian was breathing shallowly. That streak of anger flowing through him erupted suddenly. It was the thing that hurt the least.  
“Miles, you were a solider!” He exclaimed, face distorting in something disgust.  
“Right, I was.” O’Brien nodded, infuriatingly calm. “And you are a doctor! You’re supposed to help people!”   
“I do help people! I care about people! I heal, every Darkened day! And I also—”  
“Kill. You also kill.”   
“I fight.” Julian was practically speaking through his teeth. He and Mercy Delta had saved the station from invasion by Hive forces no less than six times in the past five years and this was the thanks he got! His _best friend _looking at him like he was something to be feared! A monster!  
Well.  
Guardians are not supposed to do what they do for the glory. Not from others, anyway. There were ceremonies and awards within the Vanguard, but the people they protect are better off not know the danger they’re in.   
And, well…  
He was something to be feared, wasn’t he?  
Something Cabal soldiers told ghost stories about.   
Something Hive thrall were taught to attack mindlessly on sight.  
A dead thing made by a dead power in the shape of the dead.   
“You’re a zombie.” O’Brien said and brought Julian out of his thoughts.  
“A what?” His face scrunched.  
“A zombie. It’s a monster that rises from the dead and eats people’s brains.”  
“What? Why?”   
“What?”  
“Why do zombies eat brains?”  
“Because that’s what they do!” O’Brien shouted. Half the bar turned to look. Yeah, Quark’s wasn’t really the best place to be having this conversation. No turning back now though. O’Brien took a deep breath, flashed a look at their spectators that had some serious potential as some sort of weapon, and then threw back the rest of his drink. He shoved away from the table and stood. Julian’s first instinct was to stand as well, reaching out to steady his friend.  
“Miles,” He whispered. O’Brien pulled away from him so fast he almost fell back.   
“I’m heading home.” He said. “Don’t follow me.”  
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Julian said. His voice was still angry, even if the hand he reached out toward O’Brien was concerned and nurturing. “Keiko hates it when you come home drunk.” The two of them had received exactly one lecture about being inebriated in front of the kids, and then they’d never been anything less than sober anywhere near the O’Brien clan again.  
“Don’t tell me what my wife hates!” O’Brien yanked away and the entire bar stopped. The two of them froze, locking eyes, one set angry, the other on the verge of tears. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours. ___ _ _ _

______Someone dropped a fork._ _ _ _ _ _

______It fell to the ground with a loud, metallic clang. Quark said something about everyone getting back to all the fun they were having at his wonderful bar. He strode ardently to a dabo table and spun the wheel. Whether it actually hit or not, M’Pela’s voice rang out: “Dabo!”  
Slowly, most of the noise and bustle returned to the space. O’Brien turned on his heel and stomped out of the bar. Julian sat back down at their table.   
“This is the pain our secrets protect us from.” He said to no one._ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can read that grimoire entry Julian is thinking about here: http://db.destinytracker.com/grimoire/allies/legends-mysteries/legend-the-black-garden


	14. The Un-God

Odo and Worf had been working on preparations for their second round of Important Visitors with Bad News for a few hours before the tactics officer was called away to other duties. Odo bid him a friendly goodbye and settled at his desk to start on other work. Odo and Worf didn’t really interact outside of work, unless another mutual friend invited them both to spend time together, but Odo found he enjoyed the Klingon’s company. They were both very serious and dedicated to their work and, on the rare occasion when either of them made a joke on-duty, they seemed to share a similar sense of humor. Odo didn’t know if Worf considered him a friend, but he certainly considered Worf one.  
There was a strange calm in that thought, realizing that he and the newest member of the Deep Space 9—he hesitated at the notion—family got along well. Odo smiled to himself as he busied himself with a report.  
And then Weyoun was at his door.  
“Founder.” The Vorta smiled, eyes bright with admiration and even exaltation. Odo had never experienced queasiness, but being around Weyoun—for any Vorta, for that matter—made him wonder if his brain could simulate the feeling.  
“Odo.” He corrected gruffly. “Or Constable. Either are fine. Founder is not.”  
“Oh I could never.” Weyoun sounded downright scandalized at the idea. Odo sighed and returned his attention to his padd.  
“Is there something I can help you with?” He asked without looking up. He was aware of Weyound moving to sit down in front of his desk and kept his head down. Maybe if he was dismissive enough, the Vorta would go away.  
“I was hoping to speak with you, Founder.” Weyoun said and Odo glanced up at him, annoyed. Weyound bowed his head. “If you so wish.”  
“I do not wish. Unless there’s something pressing you have to report, please leave. I have a lot of work I need to get done.”  
“Of course.” Weyoun bowed his head again and rose slowly from his seat. He made his way to the door hesitantly. Odo could practically feel him looking back at him over his shoulder. He sat back and sighed.  
“Weyoun, please, what is it?”  
“Thank you, Founder.” The Vorta was almost giddy as he returned to his chair. Odo rolled his eyes. One good thing about dealing with a person who worshipped you against your will—you didn’t necessarily have to be polite about being irritated by them. “I was just wondering about your thoughts on all this… _Guardian_ business. Surely a mind as great as yours is simply _brimming_ with thoughts, opinions. Anything you have to say,” He leaned forward and smiled, brows raising inquisitively. Odo sighed.  
“If I tell you what I think, will you leave me alone?” He asked. Weyoun nodded with all the enthusiasm of a toddler who’d just been promised an entire ice cream Sunday. “I think that the Concordat is right to be afraid. But I _don’t_ think that removing the Guardians’ capacity to do their work is the solution. The more I look into the information that they’ve made available to us, the more I think that what they do is necessary to keeping things… in check.”  
“In check?” Weyoun cocked his head. Odo sighed and pulled up a few files on a padd. He handed it to the Vorta and waited for a moment as he skimmed it.  
“These are just the threats against Bajor that have been mitigated by specialized teams in the past ninety Bajoran days.”  
“There are thousands of incidents here.” Weyoun squinted at the screen.  
“Yes, there are. According to Dr. Bashir a civilization called The Hive are targeting the Orbs.”  
“The Orbs? Whatever for?” Weyoun smiled. Odo rolled his eyes again.  
“That isn’t information that you are cleared to have. Now,” He snatched the padd away. “I’ve told you what I think.”  
“And I am a man of my word,” Weyoun stood and bowed. “Founder.” He turned on his heel and nearly bumped into Major Kira on his way out.


	15. The Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm not dead, promise

“What was that about?” Kira asked as she watched Weyoun go. She was carrying a padd in one hand and a raktajino in the other.  
“He was asking what I think about the Secret Warriors.” Odo sat back and smiled despite himself. Kira’s hair looked especially nice that day.   
“And what do you think.” She asked, sitting across from him and crossing her legs. He shook his head.  
“I think that the Dominion Founders don’t know as much as they want us to think they do.” He said. Kira hummed thoughtfully. “I’m sure your aware of what’s been happening on the surface?” He asked. Kira’s face became solemn.  
“More and more Secret Warriors are revealing themselves. They think it’s a better alternative to being revealed against their will by the Concordat or the Council of Ministers.”  
“You think the Council would do that?” Odo cocked his head to one side. “Surely Shakaar—”  
“Shakaar thinks they’re dangerous.” Kira snapped. Odo recoiled ever so slightly. It was the smallest of movements, but Kira saw it and she reached out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean,”  
“It’s alright.” Odo nodded. “You’re passionate about this. And… I’d heard that you’d been arguing with Shakaar.” Kira sighed and pursed her lips.  
“Nothing’s a secret on this station.”   
“Except the warriors, apparently.” Odo joked. Kira smiled. “But you were saying about Shakaar?”  
“The truth is that Bonju Yeema’s writings on the the Secret Warriors were never officially entered into the canon of ancient texts. A lot of people—devout people, Vedics, past Kais, even—they doubt that Bonju’s writings were truly the result of intervention from the Prophets. And if the only words on them from Texts aren’t real, then the Secret Warriors weren’t really sent by the Prophets.” She took a deep, worried breath.  
“Aren’t they?” Odo asked abruptly. Kira looked at him. “Dangerous, I mean. Aren’t the Guard—Secret Warriors dangerous? Isn’t that the point?”  
“What?”  
“A phaser is dangerous, Major. So you keep it holstered until you’re ready to use it, and you only put it in the hands of those who are trained to do so. Dr. Bashir has mentioned training. The Secret Warriors must go through some kind of process to hone their skills.” He gave a half shrug. Kira looked at him for a long moment.   
“I never thought about it like that.” She sat back. Odo’s mouth opened and the words were tumbling out before he could stop them.  
“You know, Major, that’s something I really value about our talks. We can bounce things off each other, expand each other’s horizons.” He gestured between the two of them. “Thing I never would have even thought of, you come up with at a moment’s notice. And vice versa.”   
“I value our conversations too.” Kira reached out and squeezed his hand. “Your one of my best friends.” Odo wished that didn’t sting as much as it did.   
“Thank you, Kira.” He said, smiling kindly. Kira smiled back, her face bright and warm for a moment before something seemed to sour her mood and contort her expression. Odo looked on, concerned, as she sat back and stared down into her coffee.   
“I assume you heard about O’Brien and Dr. Bashir?” She asked melancholically.  
“I doubt there’s anyone left on the station at this point who doesn’t.” Odo sighed.   
“This is exactly the kind of thing that the statute of secrecy was trying to protect them from.”  
“And the rest of us.” Odo added. “I imagine that Chief O’Brien is having just as hard a time as the good doctor. As few friends as I’ve garnered in my time have been, I simply can’t imagine losing any of them simply because… well I suppose the appropriate analogy would be that they found out I was a changeling.” Kira smiled. “I know the nose sort of gives it away, but,” He shrugged.  
“Maybe you should talk to him.” Kira said. Odo cocked his head to the side. “You could make him feel a little better. Be there for him.”  
“Well, I don’t uh,” Odo fidgeted with his hands. “If anything I think speaking with you would be good for Dr. Bashir. You’ve met the gods he serves.” Kira’s brows shot up for a moment as if she’d been struck by something profound. “Kira?” Odo leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”  
“No,” She shook her head. “I just thought of something.” She pressed her lips together and thought for a moment. “I’ll get back to you on it,” She chuckled and sat back in her chair.   
“Alright,” Odo nodded and the two of them fell into their usual routine of reports and checks. Forty minutes passed before Odo looked at Kira and threw caution to the wind.  
“Major, may I ask you a personal question?”  
“Of course.” She said and took a sip of her coffee.  
“Are you and Shakaar…” He gestured vaguely, hoping Kira would fill in the blank for him. She only raised her brows and sipped her raktajino. Odo made a face, seriously considering dismissing the subject. Kira took a deep breath.  
“That’s something that I—”  
If the door to Odo’s office could have slammed, it would have.   
“Secruity!” Illiara screeched, her flowing robes fluttering angrily about her thing form. “Security! I need security!” Kira and Odo were at her side in an instant.  
“And you have it.” Odo said firmly. “Please, just tell the Major and I what’s wrong and—”  
“What’s wrong!?” Illiara’s shrill voice ricocheted around the small room like stray lightning. “You want to know what is _wrong_ ?!”  
“Yes.” Kira put a hand on her shoulder. Illiara pulled away from her like she’d been burned. “So we can help you.”  
“Someone has stolen Substance 29!”


	16. The Infinite Playlist

The Infinite Playlist  
Julian woke up with an ache in his back that K’laka informed him was psychosomatic. Ghosts could do many things, but calm a worried mind was not one of them. That didn’t mean she didn’t spend the entire time he was getting ready cooing and nuzzling at him, though.  
“You should call in to work. You’ve had a terrible couple of days.” She said.  
“I don’t think there’s Star Fleet protocol for pain brought on by your best friend abandoning you.” Because you were lying to him the entire time you knew each other. Don’t leave that part out, Julian.   
“Just say you need a personal day! The Captain will understand!” Her chassis rotated insistently. Julian looked at her for a long time.   
“D’you think the rumors have spread yet?”  
“What? About your outbursts at Quark’s?” She tried not to sound too harsh. “Guardian, you know as well as I do that nothing is a secret on this station. I doubt they have anything concrete but there’s sure to be talk.”   
“Hm.” Julian hummed, walked stiffly over to his wardrobe. He threw open the doors with a sigh. K’laka made an agitated sound.  
“Which is why you should stay in. Recuperate. Relax. Watch a movie.”   
“What’d you think, K’laka?” He held one uniform top up to his chest and then the other. “The blue? Or the blue?”  
“You’re being petulant and you know it.” She frowned. Julian’s only responses was to smile.  
“The blue then.” He nodded.  
“Kukalaka thinks you should stay home.” K’laka flew over to the stuffed bear where he sat on his little bed. “Don’t you, Kukalaka?” She moved behind his head and put on a voice:  
“Oh yes, absolutely. Stay here and play with me, Dorian!”  
“That’s what you always say.” Julian wrinkled his nose. “If I listened to him, I’d never go to work.”  
“Please stay home.” K’laka said quietly.   
“Oh, I couldn’t.” He shook his head, smiling. “I’m supposed to have lunch with Garak today! Shouldn’t keep him waiting!”  
*  
“Do you think it could be true, Doctor?” Garak asked curiously, earnestly. “A secret army, constantly surrounding us. Living among us. And who knows what their true intentions might be?”  
Julian looked up Garak. K’laka made a frustrated noise.  
“Do not!”  
“It’s true.” He said.  
“Guardian, I swear on all the Light touches!”  
“There was a conference, a scientific council. Examples were given. Video footage. A demonstration. Apparently, we’re all under threat.” He sipped coffee.  
“Well, wasn’t that true before as well?” Garak said lightly. He looked at Julian for a moment. In the back of the doctor’s head, K’laka grumbled:  
“I hate the Concordat and I will see it dismantled.” Julian almost laughed, but he managed to catch himself.   
“Well,” He shrugged instead. “Now there’s just one more thing to worry about. The Dominion, Cardassian, Klingons, and now dead-undead-alive soldiers with unclear motivations.”   
“Unclear?” Garak leaned forward, intrigued.  
“Aren’t they?” Julian asked. “No one seems to know what these thing actually want?”  
“Things?” Garak turned his head, looking at the doctor from the side. Julian set his coffee down.  
“Are you going to ask an actual question or is this a fun new game you want to play?” He looked at his friend sternly. Garak let a slow, deliberate smile creep across his visage.  
“My dear doctor.” He said. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
“Of course not.” Julian rolled his eyes.  
“Does he know?” K’laka asked quietly. “He can’t, can he? No one knows. He just wants us to think he knows something he doesn’t. Honestly, Guardian, I just don’t know what you see in this man.” Julian smiled fondly at that, looking down at his cup.  
“What do you think, Garak?” He asked. “Are they evil, these Guardians?”  
“Evil, doctor? Surely you’ve learned by now not think in such absolutes.” Garak smirked that infuriated smirk and Julian felt his face heat ever-so-slightly.   
“Heh,” K’laka chuckled in the back of his mind. Julian took a deep breath through his nose. The worst part was that he knew _both_ of them could _tell_ he was blushing.  
“You haven’t answer my question, Garak.” Julian sipped his coffee.  
“But haven’t I?” He tilted his head to one side and smiled. Julian tried not to be too infuriated.  
“I suppose this part where you spin some story about having heard tell of them before. You knew someone who knew someone whose son was dead and then wasn’t?” His face lit up. “Oh I know! You were commissioned to design an ornate set of armored robes!”  
“Was that part of the conference?” Garak arched and eye ridge. Julian only looked at him. “Ornate armored robes? I suppose these Concordat people rolled out a sample… Do you think I could get a look at the designs?” He smirked again. “One should never turn down a good source of inspiration.”   
“Oh please,” Julian scoffed. “Don’t pretend, Garak. Just this once: we both know what you know and I’d like to not dance around the subject.”  
“Doctor?” Garak’s expression shifted for a fraction of a second. Anyone who didn’t know him as well as Julian did—and Julian knew Elim Garak as well as anyone could know him—would have missed it. Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. they wouldn’t have understood was that microscopic flinch meant. In the back of Julian’s mind, K’laka hummed.  
“I don’t think he knows.” She said. “Imagine that.”   
“Are you alright, my dear doctor?” Garak asked quietly and Julian realized that his puzzlement must have shown up on his face. He took another deep breath.   
“I’m,” He looked down. H wasn’t going to _sit there_ and lose another friend.  
“I suppose the stress of what happened with your dear Chief O’Brien is getting to you.” Garak said and Julian looked up, anger flashing on his face.  
“Oh wow,” K’laka said and Julian could feel her eye roll. “I bet it wasn’t even a tell. I bet he was doing it on purpose the whole time to make you think you had an edge when you didn’t. Guardian, you have terrible taste in partners. First the unattainable and then whatever this asshole is.” Julian smiled.  
“You didn’t know.” He said and Garak gave him a questioning look. “You didn’t know until I confirmed it just then, did you?”  
“I’m sure I don’t—”  
“You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.” Julian smiled broadly, sitting back in his chair. “Thanks Garak.” Garak smiled. Didn’t smirk. Smiled.   
“You’re welcome, Doctor.”  
*  
 _That Night_  
Because Warlocks handled the Light in its raw, pure form, it constantly pulsed through their bodies, surging through their veins, their spinal cords, integrating itself into the bioelectrical pathways that allowed them (or any sentient being) to function. This manifested in the magic Warlocks use to fight their fight. The downside to that magic was a constant pulsing energy thrumming just beneath the skin. For most Warlocks, it got worse the more they used their abilities and some have gone mad from the hum in the back of their minds or the energy pulses clawing out through the gap between their fingernails and skin.  
The Travelers had given the first Warlocks the plans to create devices to calm the thrumming. There were still questions as to where the plans had originated, but most agreed that the Travelers must have gained knowledge of them from a time that, to their linear thinking, was a far flung future. At any rate, every Warlock was gifted a Warlock Bond to help control their powers and aid in channeling the Light. Bonds were simple-looking arm bands placed in the middle of the bicep (or whatever non-humanoid equivalent. It had to do with how Light flowed through the body, as well as convenience for the wearer). An inner mechanism squeezed the bicep and kept the bond from slipping and, depending on the species, broke the skin to make direct contact with the blood stream.   
Usually, Julian went without his Bond during the day. He’d trained himself for months to keep from using his abilities while he wasn’t wearing it, and to ignore the thrum of energy for as long as possible. Technically, Vanguard health specialists recommended against such things, but few things are worse for the health than being discovered because of your arm band. He usually brought one with him on away missions and slipped it on at night to minimize detection. A curious ensign had asked about it once. He’d called it a family heirloom.   
Besides their basic utilitarian purpose, Bonds are also used to express a Warlock’s personality, honor important events or other Guardians, or commemorate great deeds done by their wearer. Mostly they were made to show off specific knowledge gained in that Warlock’s personal quest for knowledge. Julian’s interest (read: mild obsession) with Pujari and the ancient Transcripts had earned him the Bond of Will. It was a simple, black band overlaid with a lightweight, sand-colored stone, and inscribed with a verse from The Transcripts.  
_‘“Consider the word: bond. Remember, as you wield this power, that you are not alone." - Pujari, The Transcripts’_  
The passage about the Black Garden from the Transcripts had been running through his head ever since his unfortunate “lunch” with O’Brien, poisoning his thoughts on the once-beloved text. A dead thing made from a dead power… He shook his head and snapped closed the bond’s box.   
“You can’t go bondless for too much longer today.” K’laka said. “All of this extra stress is making it hard enough for that as it is.” There was a venom in her voice, an anger at the people who’d made her Guardian’s life even harder.   
“I know.” He said and slid open a drawer of clothes. He shoved the bond box into it and slammed it shut again. The drawer below that needed a retina scan to open. He wasn’t sure whether or not that was against regulations but that was convenient thing about not asking for permission.   
“You should put the other one in there.” K’laka said. “Keep all your armor together.”   
“Secrets don’t matter anymore.” He said bitterly, sliding open the drawer and surveying the neatly-packed lines of armor cases stored inside.   
“Security does though. Stop being so dramatic.” K’laka spun stubbornly. Julian sighed and slid the top drawer open again. He grabbed the box and shoved it into its proper place. He kept a few Bonds around and he grabbed once box at random. He flicked open the lid to reveal a ring of deep purple, etched with periwinkle laurel leaves. He’d received it as a present during The Dawning, a Guardian gift-giving festival and celebration of the new year. His Fireteam had chipped into get it for him and the inscription on the box’s lid was personalized:

_Julian—_   
_When all is lost, you will still be a Guardian, and you will still be enough._   
_With love so much love, Mercy Delta_

He slipped it onto his arm and let it close around his bicep, feeling a small pinch as it tapped into his systems. The bite of pain faded and he sighed.  
“Time for bed.” He said and shuffled toward his mattress.  
“Good night, Guardian.” K’laka whispered.  
*  
“Guardian.” It was late—or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it—and K’laka had _no business_ waking him up. He rolled over anyway and signed deeply.   
“Yes, Ghost?”  
“Do not move.”  
He froze, lying flat on his back, working to regulate his breathing and feign sleep.  
“What is it?” He thought, speaking through their link. He could already feel it though, K’laka’s slight panic as her scanning systems detected an intruder. Her voice was a rustling whisper in the back of his mind, shaking like a with rage at the prospect that even on Deep Space 9, there were people who wanted to hurt her Guardian.   
“There is a changeling in the ventilation system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Bet you thought I was going to ignore that plot point didn't you!  
> We're mostly out of Set Up Town now and heading down Actual Plot Road soooooooo I really hope you guys are enjoying things so far.


	17. The Reports

The Reports  
To: Captain Sisko  
From: Deputy Tayorna, DS9 Security Force  
Subject: Security Report. Update on the investigation into the theft of sample 001 of Substance 29 from its rightful owners, the Concordat Faction and its representative Illiara Hemeth of Trill. 

Thus far, DS9’s security force has questioned Dr. Julian Bashir, Star Fleet Lieutenant.   
Bashir has motive to “release” the sample, as he is one of the people whom the Concordat may be targeting in their campaign against the “Vessels” of Substance 29.   
Constable Odo questioned Dr. Bashir personally. Full transcript enclosed.   
Bashir was recorded by the station’s security system entering medical logs into the Star Fleet database in the medical bay during the window of time in which the theft took place.   
The doctor also claims to have no knowledge of the theft or of who may have performed said theft.  
Constable Odo repeatedly demanded that Bashir give Security the names of any “Guardians” whom he knows are living on the station. Bashir staunchly refused to provide a list of names or aliases, citing a cultural loyalty to his fellow “Guardians”.   
Constable Odo has placed Dr. Bashir into custody on charges of obstructing justice and hindering an investigation.   
The Constable’s personal notes to follow.

Captain,   
It’s not my personal opinion that Bashir had anything to do with the theft. However, as long as he refuses to give me the name of the other Secret Warriors aboard Deep Space 9, I have no choice but to hold him. He has requested no council, nor shown any signs of remorse since being placed in Holding Cell 2.   
His AI companion, K’laka, has been placed in a separate containment unit. Upon recommendation from Lt. Commander Dax, I placed the containment unit near Bashir’s holding cell. He and K’laka have a symbiotic relationship and it seemed unusually cruel to disallow them some form of contact.   
Lt. Commander Dax and Major Kira have both been to visit him and I doubt you have long to wait before one or the both of them pay a visit to your office.  
Without the names of the other Secret Warriors, or any new evidence found at the crime scene, we have no new leads in the case.   
Dr. Bashir will be held until further notice. 

Odo

*

GHOST 9-04-B [K’LAKA]: Reporting in to Guardian Vanguard Ikora Rey, Warlock VNGD, Section Alpha-998  
A changeling has been apprehended aboard the Star Fleet Space Station Deep Space 9.  
This changeling was attempting to subdue, apprehend, and replace Warlock Guardian Julian Bashir, GDN ID# 18975-B6A.  
Guardian Bashir successfully incapacitated the changeling and place them into a containment unit suitable for formless, gelatinous lifeforms.   
We now await further instructions. 

FRAME Lamorak 88-07: Reporting back to Ghost K’laka on behalf of VNGD Ikora Rey, Section Alpha-998  
A Guardian attaché has been dispatched to retrieve the prisoner and transport them to the nearest Guardian Outpost [Sky Jo’Kala] where they can be questioned by Voidwalker Warlocks.  
Details on hand-off to follow.

GHOST 9-04-B [K’LAKA]: Reporting in to Guardian Vanguard Ikora Rey, Warlock VNGD, Section Alpha-998  
Hand-off has been made. We were undetected.  
Someone freed the soul of the Ghost that the Concordat had been keeping.  
This has been reported to Station Security as theft.  
Guardian Bashir and I have been apprehended as suspects. Release date, unknown.  
We were not involved.  
Details to follow.

FRAME Lamorak 88-07: Reporting back to Ghost K’laka on behalf of VNGD Ikora Rey, Section Alpha-998  
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM VNGD IKORA REY: Hang tight, Guardian. We’re on our way.

*

To: Captain Sisko  
From: Constable Odo, DS9 Security Force  
Subject: Bajoran Security Officers, the Concordat’s sample, Dr. Bashir

Three Bajoran Security Officers came to me this afternoon and confessed, not only to being Secret Warriors, but also to being the thieves behind the disappearance of the Concordat’s sample. Their names are Praafo Ava, Travu Jacag, and Zeenya Roye. I’ve attached all of their personnel files. They’ve given me proof that they were the ones behind the theft, including the methods used to bypass both our and the Concordat’s security measures, interrupt video feeds, etc. All of that is enclosed.   
They are all now in Holding Cell 2 in place of Dr. Bashir and K’laka, who have been released. I see no further need to press charges against the two of them.   
The three suspects’ AI’s have been given the same treatment as K’laka and all six of them have been exceptionally cooperative. Travu shook my hand before I placed her into the cell.  
Captain, these are my people. Some of the best. They saw someone that they felt kinship with being tortured and used as a tool against themselves and their entire way of life. If you want my opinion, this is a situation in which pursuing “justice” would be morally incorrect.  
However, the Concordat and Illiara intend to press charges and I will follow through on those charges to the very best of my ability.

To: Constable Odo  
From: Captain Sisko  
Subject: Intermediate

Thank you for voicing your views, Odo, you know I always welcome input from the crew. That being said, you’re getting soft Constable.

* 

GUARDIAN Julian Bashir, ID#18975-B6A, Inquiring to Guardian Vanguard Ikora Rey, Warlock VNGD, Section Alpha-998  
Was that you?

VANGUARD Ikora Rey, Section Alpha-998: Reporting back to Ghost K’laka and Guardian Bashir  
No, but they’re all getting medals.

GHOST 6-338-K [URANOS]: Reporting to Ghost 9-04-B [K’laka]  
Hey, K-lock, long time no hear.  
Guardian Pr’niri did most of the questioning. She’s new to the Outpost, but good at her job.   
Apparently she was an interrogator on the Caitian homeworld or something. Neat, huh?  
Anyway, the changeling—they don’t have individual names or designations, which is super weird, even for a hive mind. The Darkened Vex have designations for Silimar’s sake—wasn’t aware of what the Void could do to their people.   
They stayed like a puddle the whole time and Pr’niri still pulled information out of them like they were talking up a storm.   
Full transcript and report enclosed, but the gist is that the Dominion are planning a full-scale assault on the Alpha Quadrant and Star Fleet specifically.   
(And all of us up here are SHOCKED I tell you, SHOCKED)   
They were going to replace Bashir and infiltrate DS9. Crazy stuff.  
The good news is that our prisoner—I’ve started calling them Eera—was the only changeling on DS9 besides your Head of Security.   
The bad news is that there’s a whole prison’s worth of replacement victims over in the Gamma Quadrant, including some high-up Klingons.   
Guess we know why they got so aggressive all of a sudden now, huh? Well… more aggressive. For Klingons.   
So, we attacking these guys or what?

*

To: Captain Sisko, Concordat Rep. Illiara Hemeth, and whomever else it may concern  
From: Constable Odo, DS9 Security Force  
Subject: The Trial of Praafo, Travu, and Zeenya

The three thieves in custody are Bajoran citizens, so technically they fall under the jurisdiction of the Council of Ministers on Bajor. The Council has decreed that the trio, and all Secret Warriors, are technically acting on the direct behalf of the Prophets and their Travelers. Thus, it’s been decided that they will be tried according to the laws of their administrative body, the Guardian Vanguard.   
Dr. Bashir gave me access to the Vanguard com channels and I have discussed the matter with a representative, an assistant of one Commander Zavala. Apparently he is the direct supervisor of Praafo and Zeenya. Travu’s supervisor, Cayde-6, has granted Zavala purview over this situation. The paperwork for that transfer was transmitted to me and it, as well as a full transcript of my conversation with the representative, is enclosed.   
For now, the plan is to place the three perpetrators under house arrest in their quarters aboard the station, pending trial by the Vanguard when they arrive in five days’ time.

*

GHOST 9-04-B [K’LAKA]: Reporting in to Guardian Vanguard Ikora Rey, Warlock VNGD, Section Alpha-998  
My Guardian and I request permission to inform Captain Sisko of the hostile Changeling presence aboard Deep Space 9.  
We both feel (Guardian Bashir very strongly) that it is within the Captain’s right as leader of this station to have this information and to do with it what he will.

FRAME Lamorak 88-07: Reporting back to Ghost K’laka on behalf of VNGD Ikora Rey, Section Alpha-998  
Permission denied.  
Standby. Assignment pending. 

FRAME Lamorak 88-07: Contacting Ghost K’laka on behalf of VNGD Ikora Rey, Section Alpha-998  
STRIKE ASSIGNMENT  
COLLABORATE with second Fireteam (TBA) as well as non-Guardian representative chosen by Commander Zavala. This will encourage collaboration and fellowship.  
INFILTRATE Dominion prison in Gamma Quadrant.  
RESCUE all prisoners held therein.  
ELIMINATE Dominions forces securing the facility.  
DELIVER prisoners safely back to the Alpha Quadrant and Deep Space 9. This will either impress or terrify the Alpha Quadrant Reps. It will make the Concordat quake.  
LEAVE NO ONE BEHIND. All prisoners will be rescued and rehabilitated. A second Strike is being organized to remove changeling replacements in the Klingon government as well as several other key areas. Other, similar Strikes to follow.  
LEAVE NO ENEMY ALIVE. In attacking one of our own, with full knowledge of who he is, The Dominion has declared themselves an Agent of the Darkness. They will fall.  
PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM VNGD IKORA REY: We are still Guardians. 

This message has been forward to all members of Fireteam DELTA MERCY


	18. The Arrival Part 1: Friends

Julian had never actually met any of the Vanguard in person; not the ones who’d supervised him on Earth or the three who were in charge of Bajor’s section of the galaxy. That all with them had been one part exhilarating and a million parts dizzingly intimidating. Seeing Ikora Rey—the Ikora Rey, a human born in 18th century Guinea who’d risen through the ranks of Guardianship, become a hero and a leader, become a legend—on the other side of his video screen… He wasn’t sure he was even done processing it. And now she was coming to the station to defend their right—his right—to exist in this sector, to protect their own homes. Julian had the morning of their arrival off ostensibly do he could attend the arrival ceremony and speak with the Vanguard.  
Instead, he curled up under the covers on his bed, Kukalaka tucked under his chin, K’laka flying back and forth across the room—a Ghost’s answer to pacing.   
“I think you should go,” she was saying. “I’m not going to make you go because I know you’re not feeling well,” the staring had gotten to him. Ever since word had gotten out that he was a Guardian, almost nowhere on the station was free of eyes boring into him or disgusted looks thrown when they though he wasn’t looking. People who, just a few weeks ago, would’ve stopped to chat or say good morning as they passed on the promenade were now avoiding eye contact or moving out of his way. His shift in the med bay was full of awkward tension and sudden unfamiliarity. It made him feel untouchable, diseased. K’laka continued:  
“And I know there’re gonna be people there you don’t want to see,” O’Brien still wasn’t talking to him outside of a professional capacity. Worf looked at him like was a puzzle; he was still trying to figure out how Julian could be as content as he seemed when burdened with deathlessness. Kira… he was sure she wasn’t doing it on purpose but she acted… differently around him. Like she was walking with an angel. It had been like that with the Captain the first few weeks after he was declared the Emissary and he hoped it would wear off soon. It all made him feel unnatural, monstrous. Sure, that was true but he hated the way it stung in his chest.  
“But there are going to be people that you want to see too! Vanguard Ikora, Dax, Garak might come to stick his nose in things,” Things will Garak hadn’t really changed. He smiled beneath the covers and hugged Kukalaka a little closer. That made him feel warm, like his Light was spinning in his chest, spreading across his body. “Guardian,” K’laka sounded concerned and Julian realized that he had indeed been letting his Light spread across his skin. It wasn’t inherently dangerous, but who knows what the station’s sensors could pick up. He took a deep breath. “Julian, if you’re going to stay in, at least put your Bond on,” that would keep him from setting anything on fire at least. He moved to pull the covers off and a bit of his carefully-cultivated heat escaped. He shivered and tucked the blanket back in.  
“Maybe later,” he said. “I’ll do some meditating, get my Light under control.”  
“Guardian, it’s not even that cold in here,” she did a quick temperature reading. “It’s 22 C in here. Just roll out of—”  
 _Deet, deet._   
“There’s someone at the door.”  
“Tell them to go away,” Julian rolled himself tighter in the blankets.   
“Get your Bond,” she scoffed and floated out into the living room and toward the door. “It’s Lt. Dax.”  
 _Deet, deet._  
“What should I tell her?” K’laka asked. In his bedroom, Julia peaked out from beneath his blanket, hair mussed, eyes curious. He opened his mouth to shout back at her to just wait until Dax left.   
_Deet, deet._  
“Come in,” K’laka said before Julian could stop her. The door slid open and Dax was standing there in her formal Star Fleet uniform.  
“Hello, K’laka,” she smiled and nodded respectfully before stepping inside.   
“Hi, Jadzia. He’s in his room,” she led her into the bedroom where Julian was still peeking out from his under his blanket.  
“K’laka,” He hissed, scrambling to sit up. The Light gathered under his blanket suddenly discharged, manifesting as a blue-white lighting. It arched off of the bed and shot off with a sharp _pop_. Dax took a halfstep back, startled. “Sorry, sorry,” Julian rolled out of bed, Kukalaka tucked under his arm. He headed straight for his dresser and grabbed his Bond case, left on top near Kukalaka’s chair. He set the bear in his place and started sliding the arm band on.   
“You aren’t dressed?” Dax was suddenly behind him and sounding alarmed. “The Vanguard arrive in less than hour!”  
“I,” he looked at her over his shoulder. “I was debating not going,” he shrugged. “It’s been a difficult few days. I just got out of jail, you know?” he cocked his head to one side.   
“I do know and I also know there are three Bajoran security officers under house arrest who need your support and three of your direct super visors are going to be there—”  
“Only one of them is my direst supervisor, I take orders from Cayde and Zavala because they’re nice,”  
“—And Kira’s going to expect you to be there. Do you know how many people on the station look up to you now?”  
“I’d expect a good number of them looked up to me before,” he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m pretty amazing.” Dax pursed her lips and cocked her head. Behind her, K’laka rolled her single eye. “Well, I am,” he smiled weakly.   
“Get dressed, Doctor.” Dax nodded at him curtly and Julian knew he there was no arguing his way out of this. He sighed and turned toward his wardrobe. She turned to head back into the living room and threw over her shoulder, “I’ll be waiting,” His bedroom door slid open and Julian could feel himself flush. He sighed deeply threw his nose.   
“I really wish she wouldn’t flirt with me while she was all monogamous and everything,” he said quietly. K’laka rolled her eye again.  
“She wasn’t flirting.”  
“She definitely was. That was definitely a flirty thing to say to a person in their pajamas in their bedroom, okay? Jadzia is a flirty person and it’s difficult for me. Now,” he sighed again and threw open his wardrobe, greeted by a neat row of blue and black. “What on Earth am I going to wear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Hello. I'm going to try and get a new chapter up every Monday until we get to end. Your kudos and comments mean so much to me! Thank you so so much for reading! <3<3<3<3


	19. The Arrival Part 2: Regalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah that last one was short and nothing really happened so have this one too.

The day that the Vanguard arrived on Deep Space 9, Odo was, for a few fleeting moments, genuinely afraid of his hair going grey. There were too many _people_ on this station. The council’s attaches, scientists from all over the quadrant, fanatics looking for a new cult to join or start, and dozens and dozens of parishioners from Bajor. According to Kira, weeks ago hardly anyone had believed in the Secret Warriors, and now they were crowding into the habitat ring and pouring out of the chapel and _climbing_ on things in the promenade to get a better look at Dr. Bashir or any of a number of Secret Warriors on the station. It was madness!   
His security force was stretched thin and he was three people down already. Star Fleet and Federation Security helped but he always liked working with his own people. They knew the station, knew its people and the beat of its heart. The Star Fleet officers were too stiff, Federation security were from a wide spread of world and rubbed up against culture shock and got lost in spite of their maps. Odo didn’t used to get headaches this bad.  
He, Captain Sisko, Lt. Cdr. Worf, Kira, The Speaker, and Kai Winn were all at the airlock when the Vanguard’s ship, an elegant, stately thing obviously designed for an extremely small crew, docked with the station. Illiara stood behind Odo with a pair of her own security officers. Everyone from the Concordat had seemed on edge for the past few days and their leader was practically buzzing with a mix of dread and anticipation.  
“Please stay back ma’am,” he threw over his shoulder when she started pushing forward. She stopped pushing but she didn’t move back.   
Six people exited the ship and stepped into a V-shaped formation outside the airlock. The unfurled banners decorated with various insignias and logos. Odo recognized the Vanguard insignia from the paperwork he’d exchanged with them, as well Warlock one from Dr. Bashir’s com loading screen. He assumed two of the others were for Hunters and Titans. The two he had no reference for were a white sphere splashed with the same rich shades of yellow and orange that could be seen in much of Bajoran fashion and design, and that of a two-headed axe decorated with howling wolves.   
The flag bearers were all clad in burnt orange, navy blue and white and their armor was festooned with images of trees, wolves, and axes. Other than the colors and decorations, their armor was completely unique, including their “class armor”. Dr. Bashir had explained the utility of his arm band but Odo wasn’t sure was purpose the Hunters’ long capes or the banners Titans wore on their belt could serve. Where was Dr. Bashir anyway? He glanced around. He’d said we would be there to greet the Vanguard, and Captain Sisko had been expecting him.   
No sooner had he turned to Kira to ask if she’d heard of any change in plan—with all the chaos on the station that weekend, it wasn’t unbelievable that an update simply hadn’t gotten to him—did the doctor and Lt. Dax push their way to the front of the crowd. Dax fell into parade rest and nodded at the Captain, then glanced back at Dr. Bashir like she was checking on him. There were several dozen more pairs of eyes on him that moment as well, as the station’s CMO had come dressed, not in his formal Star Fleet uniform like most of his fellows, but a shining, heavy-looking set of armored robes.   
To the doctor’s credit, they were still blue and black like his uniform, and his com badge was still pinned to is breast, but this ensemble… Resplendent is the word that jumped to the front of Odo’s mind. It consisted of a long, heavy blue coat embroidered in silvery filigree. When the doctor moved, it glinted in the light of the Promenade and Odo thought the thread must have been some kind of metal. Dr. Bashir’s shoulders were squared off and capped with silver etched in blue and black filigree. It was decorated with a black and silver over his shoulders and a sash around his waist. He wore heavy blue and black gloves festooned with silver filigree rings around each finger. His collar was shaped like a helmet was meant to lock onto it but he wasn’t wearing one. His arm band clashed a little, being shades of purple, but the doctor was… the phrase was “making it work”?   
Odo nodded and him and Jadzia. Lt. Dax smiled but Julian was too busy looking nervous scrutinizing the six Secret Warrior standing in formation. The group of them tapped their banners on the ground one and then turned inward to face each, forming a sort of runway for the airlock. They saluted with their free hands, pressing a fist to the center of their chest. Captain Sisko stepped forward to stand at the open end of their little runway. After a little coaxing from The Speaker, Kira moved to join him. Kai Winn looked like she wanted to move to but then the first of the Vanguard stepped out and there was no more time for shuffling.   
Commander Zavala was even larger in real than on Odo’s video screen. Not very tall, perhaps even a little short than Captain Sisko, but almost impossible broad. His shoulders, equipped in heavy shoulder armor that looked like they easily weighed as much as Jake Sisko. The armor itself was shining red and silver, it too gleaming in the station’s light, and decorated with some kind of bird-horse creature. Odo wondered where the wolves came in. His Titan banner… no, not banner, they were called something else… his was white and trimmed with gold with a blazing red insignia embroidered into it.  
Zavala stepped to one side and held his hand out toward the door. It was grasped almost daintily by a human woman who Odo assumed was Ikora Rey, the Warlock Vanguard. Their eyes met and he felt for a moment that he knew absolutely nothing in the world; whatever he did know was surely a drop in the bucket compared to the wisdom and understanding behind those warm brown eyes. She was draped in regal shades of purple and red, her collar arching up well past her ears. She wore a medallion around her neck that resembled a fossil, perhaps that of some kind of cephalopod. Her arm band (those were called something else too…) was grey but projected out a purple holographic insignia. It was actually quite impressive.  
She stepped aside as well and out stepped Cayde-6. He was some kind of android, plated in blue and grey. The corners of his mouth turned up and flashed yellow and Odo thought he must’ve been smiling. His armor was much more drab than his compatriots’, being mostly shades of brown and grey, decorated with white spades. The cloak—he remembered what those were called because they had an ordinary name, thank you—Cayde wore sported a bright red stripe down one side. He was the first to start walking down their runway, stopping to pat a couple of the Secret Warriors on the shoulder or ask how they were. Ikora and Zavala followed behind him, matching bemused looks painting their faces.   
“Captain,” Cayde clapped Sisko on the shoulder and shook his hand, a somewhat old-fashioned greeting popular on Earth. “Cayde-6, Hunter Vanguard. Pleased to meet you.” he sounded genuinely excited.   
“Welcome to Deep Space 9,” the Captain bowed his head. Cayde let go of his hand and Zavala and Ikora introduced themselves. “My Second in Command, Major Kira Nerys,” the Captain gestured toward her and Kira bowed.   
“An honor,” she said quietly.   
“It we who are honored by you,” Ikora said evenly. “Bajoran resistance fighters are blessed of the Travelers,” she reached out a hand and Kira took it hesitantly. “And thank you, Kira, for speaking on our behalf.”  
“I did what any follower of the Prophets would’ve done,” she said. Cayde wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.  
“Us freedom fighters gotta watch out for each other.”  
“Indeed,” Zavala nodded.  
“If you’ll excuse me,” Cayde made his way to the speaker and pulled them into a friendly hug.  
“Long time no see,” he said. “Probably. You all wear the same mask,”  
“It’s nice to see you too, Cayde,” the speaker chuckled. Captain Sisko called Odo and the other senior officers over to be introduced and Cayde waved at them each in turn.   
“I have a meeting with the Federation delegates, but the Commander Worf would be more than happy to offer you a tour,” the Captain said and Odo could feel the brief wave of anger coming off of the tactics officer. In the corner of his eye, Jadzia stopped herself from laughing.   
“Guardian,” Ikora’s eyes landed on Julian and he straightened up. “Will you be joining us?”  
“I’d like to, Vangaurd,” he said. She only nodded. “And major Kira?” Kira nodded a little nervously. “Lovely.”


	20. The Meals Part 1: Eye Contact

The tour ended at Quarks, which was packed if only because of the surplus population on the station. And Julian loathed the way that the air seemed to get thicker when they stepped inside. Not all of the noise stopped, surely that was nigh impossible, but _enough_ did. Quark was still shouting but the person whose order he’d been taking at the bar was silent. The Dabo wheels were still spinning but Lena had stopped to stare. A group of people near the holosuites were still chatting and shoving, drunk and jovial, but a group of nearly a dozen at the next table were all hushed and stiff. Julian recognized Haduak, one of the Concordat’s scientists but none of the others. He wondered if they were recruiting and the thought scared him. He and Haduak locked eyes for a moment he refused to look away. Worf was explaining Quark’s:  
“Deep Space 9 is host to a large variety of people, and this establishment, while seemingly…” he struggled for polite words. “It may appear as if Quark’s is…” he made a face. “A lot of people like it here,” there was a ripple of laughter through their entourage. The Vanguard’s escort party had all elected to be shown to their rooms.   
“A bit loud for my taste,” Zavala remarked. “Not a good kind of loud either,”  
“Good kind of loud, sir?” Julian was still looking at Haduak and Haduak was still looking at him.   
“Mm,” Zavala nodded. “Loud like a festival, or the crowd at a race. Loud that gives you energy, lifts you up.”  
“Or on a battlefield,” Worf added proudly. “War cries and phaser fire.” Zavala nodded hesitantly.   
“A proud sort of loud,” he said, perhaps by way of concession. “A good loud.”  
“Depends on who you talk to,” Cayde shrugged. “Give me bar loud over battlefield loud any day.”  
“Debate loud,” Ikora added.   
“Those are different,” Zavala shifted his weight and damned if the whole place didn’t seem to shift, the way solar system do when a planet is somehow shifted from its orbit. He adopted a sort of casual lean, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “Not cacophonous like this… or how I image this place would be in the strange soldiers had not come gliding in,” he looked around. “Perhaps we should find somewhere different for lunch.”  
“There is a Klingon restaurant,” Worf suggested, an eager edge to his voice that made Julian smile. Haduak cocked his head to one side questioningly, then looked away. Julian let himself blink. “Real Klingon food, nothing replicated. The chef is excellent.”  
“I might take you up on that,” Zavala smiled warmly.  
“There’s also the replimat,” Kira said, her voice still quiet. Not timid. Never timid. Reverent? “If you’d like something specific. I don’t know you’re in the mood for.” Ikora perked up.  
“I haven’t had real Earth food in such a long time,” she clasped her hands together. “Join me, Kira,” she didn’t wait for the Major to reply before she turning on her heel. Julian wasn’t sure how she seemed to know exactly where she was going; they hadn’t passed it on the tour.  
“Drinks cheap here?” Cayde asked no one in particular. He was already moving by the time Julian formulated a reply. Cayde motioned for him to follow. “Join me, Guardian, we’ll talk shop.” He was following before he could really think about it.


	21. The Meals Part 2: Drinking Buddies

Cayde couldn’t have been out of Julian site for more than a minute but he already had a drink by the time he got to the bar; it was some kind of electric blue liquid in a wide, low glass.   
“Your Fireteam here yet?” Cayde asked casually. He held his glass with his fingertips and swirled it in the air as if to let it cool rather than let it warm the way one normally swirled a drink.   
“They’re scheduled to arrive tonight, Vanguard,” Julian reported. Didn’t say, didn’t tell, reported. Cayde squinted at him for a moment.  
“You know I’m in your house, right?” he asked. Julian blinked.  
“Pardon?”   
“I’m—we’re guests. Come to visit. I’m not your superior officer right now. Just got the ten cent tour and everything. You mentioned a lot of personal details about Sisko in your report. Don’t think you picked those up in staff meetings.”   
“Ah, well, no,” Julian shook his head, feeling sheepish.   
“Good, good. Siddown, will ya? Take a load off. Tell me how you got those fancy robes ‘a yours.”  
“Oh, well,” Julian looked down at his robes for a moment. Where had he gotten this set? He slid onto the stool next to Cayde and leaned on the bar just in time for Quark to appear out of the ether.  
“What can I get you, Doc?” He asked, sounding winded.   
“Ale,” Julian said simply, suddenly hyper appear of the weight of his armor on his shoulders, on his forearm as he reached for his glass.  
“You freaks can’t be all bad,” Quark remarked as he poured. “Sorry— _Guardians_. I mean, look at this place,” he gestured encompassingly. Cayde glanced around, winked at a Bajoran parishioner who’d been staring at him. They hid their face in something like embarrassment, something like gratitude, a little too like graced. “You people wanna die over and over again fighting some invisible war? Go on ahead, as long as it’s good for business.”  
“Spoken like a true Ferengi,” Julian tried not to roll his eyes.  
“I’m choosing to take that as a complement,” Quark deadpanned.   
“Happy to help,” Cayde raised his glass. Then he turned back to Julian. “Your robes?”  
“Oh, right, ah,” he thought for a moment, then smiled. “I bought them. In a bazaar near New Hope.”  
“The Eliksni’s new digs,” Cayde said like he was reminding himself. “They make good robes?”  
“These are nice at least. The family I bought them from took great pride in outfitting the Great Machine’s army,” he lifted his arm to show off a set of stitching. It’s silly he’d forgotten about the set’s origins. “They’re meant for Eliksni.” He put his arm down again. “I tried to buy a new rifle while I was there but the firing mechanism was too complex for two arms.”  
“Mm,” Cayde finished his drink. Julian was suddenly curious where liquid went in an Exo body. It’d probably be rude to ask. “Lotta folks would take that as a challenge.”  
“Oh no,” Julian shook his head. “I have my arms. Relentless, Nightshade. I just got a new Apple of Discord.” He smiled. “It’s got Firefly on it.”  
“Pulse rifles,” Cayde scoffed, his manner playful and teasing. “Gimme a steady handcannon any day,” reflexively, he reached for the holster on his back, then made a sort of “tisking” sound. Most Exo didn’t have the teeth and tongue organics usually used to make the noise, so it was close to a pop of static. “Forgot your security force had us give up our weapons. Ones that aren’t attached anyway,”  
“If you gave them to Odo, they’re being well taken care of,” Julian assured him.  
“I know we’re never really unarmed,” he raised a hand and rubbed two fingers together. The smallest of flames ignited between them, not even sparking before puffing to life. The orange flicker reached upwards in an attempt to grab at more oxygen and grow but it was gone in the next moment as Cayde shook his hand out. Julian almost forgot to look around nervously. “But I don’t like my sidearm being in some crate in my quarters. Ace o’ Spades is… special to me,”  
“Sometimes, when I come back from a long strike, a part of me wants to see how long I could get away with it—carrying a gun.”  
“Harder to do when you’re a rifle man,” Cayde smiled. Julian nodded, sheepish again. “I was never on the shadowed side, not really my thing.”  
“Strange for a Hunter, yeah?” Julian remarked and took a sip of his drink. Was Quark watering the ale? Julian wondered if he was running low on supplies because of the crowds.   
“Stealthing a mission and stealthing your life are two different things Guardian. I worry about folks like you, with a foot on both sides. Weighs on you, breaks you down.”  
“Does that mean you think the reveal is a good thing?”  
“I think it’s a change,” Cayde flagged down Quark for a refill. “A big one. And those are always rough. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad.” He raised his glass, eyes darting to a place behind Julian’s head. “You know him?” Julian glanced backwards casually, disguising his movement is a sweeping look across the bar. O’Brien was sitting with one of his engineers. Ch-something. Chand? Charles? Chase? Chase. Rumor had it (re: Dax told him) O’Brien had recruited Chase to replace Julian on their hollo-suite appointments. He wondered if Chase was less obsessed with WWII, or if he never complained with O’Brien insisted on being the hero of every story.   
“He’s my best friend,” Julian said and down his drink. Quark had definitely been watering down the ale.  
“He was last month anyway, yeah?”  
“These are the pains our secrets protect us from,” he said it like he was quoting something, but he couldn’t remember if he’d heard it from somewhere or his own melodramatic brain had come up with.   
“That’s the kinda thing I used to worry about with you secret-y folks. You want me to talk to him?” Cayde smiled wryly. Julian blinked at him.  
“Pardon?”  
“That’s our whole mission here, right? Reach out and be friendly. What’d you two used to do together?”  
“I…” Julian looked the Hunter up and down. Cayde’s smile widened. “We would… play hollo programs together. Old battles mostly. Second World War, Celtic skirmishes.”  
“Hm,” Cayde nodded then hopped off his stool. “See if you can grab that Lt. Dax, will you? She seemed fun.” Julian watched Cayde swagger over to O’Brien’s table and greet him. He swung his arms wide, gestured with his drink. He was comradery loud, party loud, brotherhood loud. O’Brien glanced at Julian several times. Julian smiled, gave a weak wave. A few minutes later, O’Brien was nodding at something and Julian was flagging down Quark for a hollo-suite.


	22. The Meals Part 3: A People's Soul

Kira and Ikora had trouble finding a table at the replimat at first. Then Kisinger, one of the humans with The Concordat, very pointedly moved tables. They dragged with them two other people who Kira knew lived on the stage. A spike of anxiety ran through her. If Ikora noticed she didn’t seem to mind. She settled onto a seat with a tray of fufu and fried sweet potatoes. Kira had had roasted and baked sweet potatoes before, courtesy of Captain Sisko, but the thin cut ones of Ikora’s plate were spiced and flavorful in a completely different way. She also had a mug of fruity tea and milk that she held with both hands, inhaling the scent with the same reverence a person took in a ceremonial drink.   
“That all looks delicious,” Kira smiled.   
“Have some,” Ikora pushed her plate of fries over and Kira hesitated. Ikora quirked a an eyebrow as she sipped her tea. Kira eventually took a few fries and set them next to her hasperat.   
“I wanted to ask you about the trial,” Kira said, pushing through her star struck. “The Bajoran security officers who freed the Kebet Pagh—” Ikora put a hand on hers, gentle but firm.  
“Please, no talk of business while we’re eating,” she said and when Kira stiffened and looked concerned she continued: “There’s a plan in place, Kira.”  
“Vanguard,” there was stubbornness and worry in her voice and Ikora nodded knowingly. Kira didn’t get her next words out, didn’t seem to need to.  
“You’ll be read in on it when the time is right. For now, trust that Praafo, Zeenya, and Travu are in good hands. Their Ghosts have been in contact with the Vanguard and they’re all just fine.” Ikora sipped her tea. “Mm. Can hardly tell it’s replicated. One day I’m going to get back to the Sol system, have some fresh blackberries.” She set her mug down and looked Kira directly in the eye. Kira hadn’t noticed until just then, but the Warlock definitely hadn’t been doing that before. She would’ve noticed this. This presence. This hold. “Kira, I meant what I said before. You’re advocating for us means a lot. It means a lot to Travu and her Fireteam. It means a lot to the Travelers. There are protocols for commending civilians and I intend to get you commended.” She patted her hand, then looked away briefly. Kira felt suddenly tired but also… empowered?   
“Thank you,” she said, feeling odd and out of place all of a sudden.   
“Of course. You deserve it. But that sound a lot like business didn’t it,” she chuckled, warm and dignified. “We’ll get to all of that this afternoon with Captain Sisko,” she made a dismissive gesture. “I’d love to get to know you better, Kira. And I’m sure you have questions of me.”  
“Yes actually,” Kira smiled brightly, then registered everything Ikora had just said. “You want to get to know me?”  
“Oh of course. I know you’re devote of the Travelers—excuse me, the Prophets, and that you were a resistance fighter during the Cardassian occupation, but little else. Please,” she gestured toward her. Kira sat back, thought for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Ikora smiled encouragingly. Kira couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of test.   
She told her about the occupation and growing up in a refugee camp, about her father and mother and brother. She went on for a long time about her resistance cell and the friends she’d made there. The friends she’d lost. She told her about coming to the station and meeting Captain Sisko, about Dax and Odo and Dr. Bashir.  
Ikora asked the occasional question, made the occasional comment. Tell me about your mother? I’m sorry for your loss. Are there many of your resistance cell left? Losing teammates is always hard. How long have you known Odo? I appreciated his expertise and honesty during our negotiations.  
“Oh!” she put a hand in front of her mouth playfully. “There I go. Talking about business again.”   
“I really would like to ask you about the trial,” Kira said, scooting forward in her seat. Ikora smiled wryly.  
“If you must. One question,” she put a finger in the air. Okay, maybe this was the test. None of her questions had felt probing and Kira had caught herself a few times thinking that they were just new friends getting to know each. Forgetting that she was talking to an angel.   
She opened her mouth to speak, carefully selected question already on her tongue, and was cut off.  
“One question about what?” Shakaar came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.  
“Oh,” she stood reflexively. She almost leaned in to him to peck him on the cheek. But she was still mad at him. He would get no kisses until he listened to reason. “Vanguard Rey, she gestured to Ikora.  
“Ikora,” she smiled but didn’t stand. Kira wondered if that was on purpose.   
“Ikora, this is Shakaar Edon, Bajor’s First Minister and my,” Boyfriend sounded so juvenile. Lover? Dramatic. Oh, partner! But they weren’t married… He called him tem’en1 but that felt too affectionate for the last time they saw each other. “This is Shakaar, ja’lat2,” ‘My ja’lat’ would be redundant regardless of universal translation. Ikora’s eyes lit up as if she understood. If Shakaar noticed the change in endearment it didn’t show on his face. Kira sat back down and he joined them, leaning his forearms on the table and looking at Ikora like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.   
“Nice to meet you,” he said curtly and took a seat. Ikora bowed her head. “Sorry I missed your grand entrance. I had business to attend to on the surface,”  
“An honor, First Minister. And it’s no worry at all. Leadership is sixty percent paperwork. Fry?” she pushed the tray over to him. He looked at it, then her and then Kira.  
“Sweet potato.” Kira provided and ate a couple of hers. They were really quite good, not too sweet, unsalted, a good crunch. But completely unlike the sweet potatoes she’d had with Captain Sisko. “Earth food is so versatile,” she said by way of small talk.  
“A lot like humans that way,” Ikora smiled proudly. “You can learn a lot about a people from their cuisine,” she gestured to Kira’s tray, pointing at each item in turn. “Bajorans are traditional, spiritual, resilient.”   
“What’s Guardian food like?” Shakarr asked, tilting his head in innocent curiosity. Kira squinted at him for just a moment. Ikora thought, placing a finger on her cheek and looking up at the lights of the replimat.  
“Eclectic,” she finally said with a nod. “A sort of mishmash of different cultures. Though if we do have anything original, it’s the sweets?”  
“Sweets?” Kira smiled, something inside her secretly hopeful that Ikora had a satchel of candies stashed somewhere in her robes. Maybe she should’ve been embarrassed at such a childish thought but instead she was only strangely hopeful.   
“Oh of all kinds. There’s a festival once a year to honor the dead and we make candies and pies and things to remind us of…” she put on a voice and Kira got the impression that she’d heard a speech explaining this festival every year for the entire time she’d been a Guardian. “The sweetness of life,” and, miracle of miracles, she did indeed unzip a hidden pocket on one side of her robes and pull out a brown paper bag marked with the image of a purple rooster. “These are my favorites,” she said it as if she was sharing a secret and folded down the bag to reveal an assortment of multicolored pellets.   
Kira smiled brightly and took a few of them. Shakaar turned them down when Ikora offered him the bag and Kira was irrationally angry at that. She was angry because she was already mad at him. she made a point to look at him when she popped her candies into her mouth. They were fruit flavored and Kira almost spat them out when their surface erupted with carbonation. Ikora giggled and Kira got the feeling that watching people try these things for the first time was a beloved past time. Kira laughed too.  
“Try one Shakaar,” she said and gestured at the bag. He chuckled.  
“Not after that face you made,” he shook his head.   
“Oh come now,” Ikora shook the bag. “What’s wrong with a little cultural exchange,” she couldn’t help laughing.   
“You do give these to people to see their reactions!” Kira pointed accusingly. Ikora pressed a hand to her chest and gasped, her head thrown back in mock j’accuse.   
“I would never,” she minced. “How dare you _accuse_ me of such a _horrendous_ crime I cannot—” she and Kira were both breaking down laughing by the time she got to the ‘c’ in cannot.   
“Well,” Shakaar sighed. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well.”  
“Mm,” the speed at which Ikora regained her composure was astounding. “Is that impatience I sense in your voice, First Minister? Did you need something?” she folded up the bag and slipped it back into its pocket. Kira sat up and concentrated very hard on catching her breath.  
“I just have a few questions,” Shakaar shrugged. “About you and your organization.”  
“You’re more than welcome to join Captain Sisko and the other delegates this afternoon.” Ikora set her jaw like she was holding herself back.  
“I plan on it,” he nodded. “But before we’re surrounded by those who’ve already made up their minds that you are who you say you are, I’d like to ask you something.” Ikora gave a sort of ‘go on’ nod. Kira fixed Shakaar with a hard look. The kind she used to give him when they were held up in catacombs and trenches. He seemed to make a point out of not looking at her. “Where exactly were these ‘Secret Warriors’ when we needed them during the occupation, hm? If the Prophets sent you to keep us safe, why did the Cardassians get as far as they did? We lost entire cities while supposedly under your protection. And I would like an explanation.”  
“Shakaar,” Kira wasn’t sure what she was going to say. In different circumstances, she would’ve been unquestionably on his side. The occupation devastated their entire world. If the Secret Warriors were there whole time, why _didn’t_ they intervene? She looked at Ikora, who was staring straight at Shakaar. It was like they were both waiting for the other to blink. The silence was long and tense and Kira was distantly aware of the one or two people passing by who seemed to sense that something was capitol H Happening here.   
Ikora took a deep breath but she did not blink.  
“The fact that we did not stand between Cardassia and Bajor is regrettable. As Vanguard of this sector, it is a stain on my legacy that I will never be able to wipe away. I don’t want to get into specifics here, but there are reasons we were not able to directly interfere. I can tell you that there were Guardians on the ground on Bajor, those who perished during the occupation,” she flexed her shoulders like they were tired. “That isn’t enough, I know. And am I sorry.”  
“You’re right,” it was hard to call Shakaar petulant when he was right. “It isn’t.” he rose and stormed away as professionally as possible, nearly knocking into Jake Sisko on the way.  
“First Minister!” the boy raised a padd and stylus, poised, no doubt, to ask Shakaar for a statement. When the man continued on his way without paying him any mind, Jake turned to the table. His smile was bright, eyes full of light. Ikora smiled as he introduced himself.  
“I want to run a series of articles on the Secret Warriors,” he explained. “Everyone’s reactions to the secret being revealed, and I’m covering your arrival, uh,” he struggled for a title.  
“Vanguard,” she supplied and gestured to the chair Shakaar had vacated. “Keeping the people informed will only help with this transition.”   
“Thank you very much, Vanguard,” Jake settled into his seat. “Major, can I count on statement from you too?”  
“Maybe later, Jake,” she smiled politely and took her tray when she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ja’lat means “my dear”.  
> 2) Tem’en means “bright one” in Bajoran and is used like a pet name. There’s not really anything to suggest that it would mean more than any other endearment but I’m here for the world building.


	23. The Meals Part 4: Brothers in Arms

Zavala felt himself relax for the first time in a week. There was no crisis to deal with, no impending invasion or threat of expulsion. He was just sharing a meal with a new friend, getting to know his culture. This would be easy. Worf brought three trays over to their table. The Speaker had walked with them out of Quark’s but they were nowhere to be seen now.  
“They do that sometimes, just disappear,” Zavala shrugged, his shoulder plates clinking against his chest plate. “It’s… disconcerting.” Zavala’s voice is a low rumble deep in his chest and Worf is reminded briefly of Klingon tacticians that growl their plans across war tables and then praise for their subordinates into their ears.   
“Indeed,” He sneered, casting his gaze around the promenade. The robed figure was nowhere to be found.   
“I’m sure none will go to waste,” Zavala all but smirked, his manner almost too warm for such an expression. “Tell me, what do we have here?”  
“Ah,” Worf smiled proudly and pointed at each dish in turn. Several hand-sized pies were ‘rokeg blood pies’, there was a sort of chutney made of roots and diced meat, and the plate of wriggling worm-like creatures was apparently ‘gagh’. Worf seemed especially excited to dig into that. Zavala took one of the plates and moved it closer to himself, grabbing a fork with the other hand.  
“Oh, I see, I need to kill it first,” Zavala readied his fork to stab at the plater of wriggling invertebrates.   
“Not at all,” Worf put a hand on his wrist. “Gagh is meant to be consumed live.” Zavala blanched.   
“You’re not… serious?” he furrowed his brow.  
“I am very serious.” Worf said adamantly and grabbed a handful of gagh from his plate. He slurped the red-brown worms down and grinned like he’d never tasted something so delightful. Zavala set his fork down and steeled himself. He’d faced down entire legions of Vex, shot Cabal soldiers with their own two-ton slug riffles, stood stalwart for an entire sector for decades. He could he polite and have some… worms.   
They were ridiculously salty and continued to wriggle long after he’d swallowed. Zavala banished the image of them squirming in his guy before it had fully formed. Worf looked on expectantly.   
“The texture was a bit,” he cleared his throat, refusing to imagine the gagh clawing themselves back up his throat. “Off-putting. Perhaps the blood pies?” he smiled hopefully and grabbed one from the plate. Worf nodded.  
“It can be a bit of an acquired taste,” he said and slurped another handful. “You’ll like the blood pies.”   
“Mm,” Zavala chewed thoughtfully. “This crust is very well done. You know, meat pies are something you’ll find in nearly every culture. Well, except those who don’t eat meat I suppose. My people, The Awoken, raise little livestock. We don’t have the room in our home region so meat it saved for special occasions. Not even the Queen has meat for anything less than a high holiday,” he chuckled with something like nostalgia. “I remember the first time I traveled away from the Reef. To see people just walking around with street sandwiches bursting with beef or pork,” he shook his head. “I was out with my mentor and I asked him, ‘Saladin, what is everyone celebrating?’ And he—he’s so dramatic—he said ‘They are celebrating the chance to be alive’.” And the two of them laughed.   
“I spent much of my childhood on Earth,” Worf explained as they continued to eat. The chutney was good, if a little rich. “Russia. Much of their naïve cuisine is pickled or stewed. My foster mother often tried to merge Klingon cooking with human,” he smiled with something like fondness, something like embarrassment. “She make blood pies for me when I was young, and then tried to fuse them with piroshki.”   
“Was she successful?” Zavala asked jovially around a mouthful of food. Worf looked away for a moment, wistful and fond.  
“Helena is a good woman. My son is with her and Sergey now and he tells me they’re doing alright,” he looked back at Zavala. “The blood piroshkies were terrible,” he grimaced. “Alexander and I both love them.”  
“Tell me about your son,” Zavala smiled warmly. Worf paused for a moment and Zavala thought he must have been combing through a thousand facts and anecdotes about how wonderful his son was. When the pause went on just a tic too long Zavala decided to prompt him. “Is he in Star Fleet as well?”  
“Alexander turns seventeen this year,” Worf said. “Still too young to join the Academy. I don’t think he would want to though. Star Fleet is… well, at least the way I’ve experienced it, it’s too exciting for him. Alexander is a scholar,” one corner of his lip quirked upward and his eyes softened quite a bit. “He has a fantastic mind. In the Klingon Empire, he would’ve made a good military strategist or a historian.”  
“Historian? Not the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Klingon careers.”  
“There are those who are more suited to thought than to action. Alexander is one of those people.”  
“Forgive me, but that also feels uncharacteristic. I hope I’m not overstepping, but I am quite curious.”  
“Thoughtful is not the same as _ponderous_. One’s instincts can only take you so far in battle or in life. Sometimes, a plan I is necessary. A solid foundation to build on. Most importantly, great Klingon thinkers know when to stop thinking and act.”  
“Hm,” Zavala nodded. “I see. Thank you. What is Alexander a scholar of?”  
“He tells me he likes history. And art.”  
“Ah, he’ll make you a proud Klingon papa yet.”  
“He has already, I assure you. He’s doing well in school and he helps his the Rozhenkos. It’s all I ask of him, really.”  
“All any of us ask,” Zavala took a sip of coffee. Raktajino was too sweet, this was a stronger, plainer blend that was advertised to smack you in the face like a scorned Klingon paramour. “Art you said?”  
“Mm. He’s much of Earth’s notable epic poetry Klingon operas bore him, though. I love him, but I will not pretend to understand him.”  
“It’s some sort of hidden blessing when your children reject your hobbies, isn’t it? When my eldest first took up crochet she had surpassed my skill in little over a week.”  
“You have children?” Worf asked. Zavala nodded.  
“In my first life. Two daughters and a son. Athena1” he turned his head toward nothing and suddenly a Ghost was there, festooned in a bold, red and silver shell that matched her Guardian’s armor. “Do you have those photos?” he asked, then turned back to Worf in time to catch his new friend grimace at Athena. The look was startled and untrusting, like Worf had managed to forget who exactly he was dining with. And now that he had been reminded… Zavala pressed his lips together, considered dismissing his Ghost. But she was already projecting picture he’d requested into the space between him and Worf. It was of three teenaged Awoken, all wearing fluffy winter gear, standing in front of some kind of frosted-over farm. Zavala swallowed hard, then introduced each of them in turn.  
Elidia, the eldest, was tall and slender. If not for their noses and the way their foreheads creased, you wouldn’t think she and Zavala were related. Nyx was next, her wide shoulders and plump frame more reminiscent of her father, but she had nothing of his face. And Jeconiah, the youngest and only boy, stood between his sisters and held their hands, his smile so wide it threatened to split his face. He was a good two heads shorter than Elidia despite only being two years younger than her at 13.   
“Where are they now?” Worf’s voice was just shy of strained. Athena turned the projection off and floated back toward Zavala, placing herself just behind his head. Her single eye looked off into some middle distance, moving side to side slowly like she was reading something. Worf squinted. How could she be reading something that wasn’t there? Zavala broke his concentration by answering his question.  
“They’ve been dead for about thirty years now,” he said it casually and Worf blinked at him, startled. “Nyx actually went last. Old age, back in the Reef, on that farm in the photo. The Reef is part debris field, part asteroid belt. We mine water from iced-over asteroids. My mother owned the farm in my first life, then I died deep in the Reef Wars.”  
“Reef Wars?” Worf asked. “I’m familiar with most major military conflicts in the past hundred years or so,”  
“Oh this had to be,” Zavala thought for a moment.  
“Two hundred and twenty six years, Commander,” Athena didn’t look up from whatever she was reading.   
“Hm. Awoken are long-lived even when we aren’t Guardians,” Zavala explained. “And I’m young for a Vanguard.”  
“May I ask you a question?” Worf shifted in his seat. He and Zavala had both mostly finished their food. There was one blood pie left on Worf’s plate.   
“Of course,” Zavala nodded. “I’ve asked many of you.”  
“Death,” Worf said and then sort of stalled out, not quite sure where he was going with this. He took a deep breath. Zavala pressed his lips together again, this time in an attempt not to laugh. Finally, Worf found his words. “It’s not something so flippant for most people.”  
“Flippant?” Zavala quirked an eyebrow.  
“We were shown footage of one of your—” he glanced at Athena. She was still reading, now humming so quietly to herself that Worf had to concentrate to hear it. “Companions,”  
“You can say Ghost,” she said, still reading, and somehow still humming. Worf shifted again and Zavala could see the unease permeating his entire body. It was difficult to scare a Klingon, he knew, but disquieting them, even one as stalwart and formidable as the _Enterprise’s_ head of security or Deep Space 9’s tactics officer, was as easy as placing an old-young, dead-alive soldier in front of him.  
“We watched as one of your machines,” Worf huffed and Zavala thought maybe he was resisting the urge to insist that he did not believe in ghosts. “Raise a man from the dead. And I’ve spoken to Dr. Bashir since then. He says he has died many times. Numika, the Klingon scientist the Concordat brought in, has expressed a great deal of… disturbance with what she found studying Substance 29.”  
“I’ve wondered,” Athena’s single eye slid over to Worf for the first time. “What were the other 28 substances they studied? Did they start with the oily secretions of their own egos?” Worf grimaced.   
“Athena,” Zavala’s tone was warning.   
“One wonders,” she said and returned to her reading.   
“Continue, Worf, please,” Worf leaned back in his chair and threw an arm across the back of it. Worf hadn’t noticed before, but Zavala had been… still. During their lunch. He’d spoken and gestured and reached for food, but the bulk of him was… still. Just still. And now that he was adjusting position it was as if gravity was shifting in the station. Worf glanced around and apparently no one else had noticed. He huffed again.  
“Guardians are warriors,” he said and Zavala nodded, proud, curious. “But all warriors deserve a glorious death on the battlefield. It’s what we work for our entire lives.” Zavala’s turn to huff. It was like the beginning of a laugh.  
“What I work for is a galaxy where Guardians are not needed,” he said. “It’s a lot like the galaxy the Concordat wants, really. But safer. Where the Darkness has been snuffed out, not allowed to freely penetrate our walls. Then, perhaps, I will have my last death. It may be glorious, I suppose. But not bloody glorious. Loving glorious.”  
“Loving, sir?” Worf tilted his head ever-so-slightly. Zavala nodded slowly and thoughtfully.  
“Loving glorious. The perfect death. Calm and peaceful and surrounded by loved ones.” Athena1 looked at him and he seemed to sense it, glancing back at her as if the two were sharing some kind of in-joke. “I have two great-great-grandchildren, Worf” Zavala continued. “I’d like them to live in a galaxy where I am not needed. And I’d like to die in a way that leaves no story to tell, or song to sing,” Worf couldn’t help the way his eyes widened. Zavala couldn’t help chuckling. “Oh, that must be the scariest thing about us yet,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Zavala’s Ghost’s name is an homage to occasional_boy_reporter’s excellent CaydVala fic “Two Kinds of Steel”. Read it it’s good, http://archiveofourown.org/works/5710174/chapters/13154803


	24. The Reporter

Jake Sisko changed his outfit twice before he decided he didn’t have time to goof around anymore. Then he changed again. This was his first Real opportunity as a Real Journalist. He couldn’t risk some kind of fashion faux pas getting between him and the story of the millennium. Eventually though he had no more time to waste. He caught up to his father on his way from Ops to the air lock.  
“Good morning Captain Sisko,” he beamed. Sisko threw a sly look at him over his shoulder.  
“Morning.”  
“Jake Sisko. Deep Space Times,” he puffed his chest out a little.  
“I like the name,” Sisko nodded.   
“Thanks. Me and some other people from around the station and down on Bajor are planning out our first issue at the end of the month. Care to give a statement on current events?” he stopped short when his father slowed to a stop and turned to him. He looked proud and Jake couldn’t help but smile wide, a pride of his own blooming in his chest.   
“What kind of statement?”   
“Well, how’d you feel about the Vanguard’s arrival? Is Deep Space 9’s fearless leader excited about the new arrivals? Anxious about how the Secret Warriors will complicate the situation with the Dominion? Pensive about the upcoming trial?” he was starting to ramble and Sisko crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side.  
“Sounds like you already starting righting your article.”  
“What? Oh, no, I just,” Jake cleared his throat. “A journalist has to be attuned to the atmosphere around him, Captain.”  
“And those are the vibes you’ve been picking up around the station?” Jake nodded. “Me too.” Sisko started walking again, slower and with less purpose, like he and his son were just having a casual stroll. Jake preferred to think of them as two professionals working together but he could bring that up at another time.   
“I think I’m going to interview the Vanguard,” Jake said confidently.  
“You mean you’ll try.”  
“You come on, Captain,” he smiled. “Who could resist my charm? Or the chance to really speak to the people,” he gestured encompassingly.   
“What’d you think they’ll say?” Sisko asked and Jake opened his mouth for another confident, sure answer and then he closed it again. He raised his Padd and stylus.  
“It’s called ‘investigative journalism’ dad.”   
“Ah,” Sisko nodded. “When you finish this article,” Jake was afraid for a moment that he was going to ask to see it before it was published. Perhaps irrationally, he thought he was going to want to redact something. “Make sure I get a copy, will you?” Jake smiled, tried not to let his relief show on his face.


	25. The Game Part 1: Covershoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody. Did you have a nice holiday? I had a nice holiday and now we're back to regular updates probably maybe. This chapter beta'd by my good friend and pal NinjaKitty, artdailybykitty on tumblr.

Julian crouched down behind a the twisted remains of a blown-off bulkhead, Apple of Discord braced against his shoulder. It wasn’t’ the best gun for this—the sight was a little short and the damn thing had been pulling to the left since the day he bought it. However he could just make out the lanky, stalking form of a Hive Thrall walking its patrol route a dozen or so meters away. He adjusted his grip on the gun, breathed out evenly, and squeezed the trigger. The thrall died with a piercing cry, its body shriveling and shrinking down, limbs flailing as it collapsed.   
Julian held his breath, glanced at his minimap. The red on the readout hadn’t moved. He glanced to one side. O’Brien’s helmet was catching the light coming off a Hive lantern of their right. Julian reached over and placed a gentle hand on his head, moving him out of the light’s path. O’Brien was playing Ethen Beverly, a human Titan and founding member of the Sun Legion, who famously mentored and trained newly-risen Titans in the ancient art of standing between their allies and whatever wanted those allies destroyed. To that point, he had enormous shoulder plating and his helmet was essentially a rounded cube; it was all incredibly heavy and burnished in sulfur.   
O’Brien looked at him and Julian couldn’t see his face, but he still felt like he’d been accused of something. He pointed toward the lantern, its sickening yellow glow casting about their impromptu sniper’s nest. O’Brien looked back at it, then nodded at Julian, giving him a thumbs up as way of thanks. He adjusted his position and readied his gun, a medium-range scout rifle with low recoil. It was a better gun for this. Their com channel clicked on and Cayde’s voice hummed in their ears.  
“Oh, I thought you guys were signaling me.”  
“They could be monitoring com channels,” Julian whispered.   
“Nah,” Cayde brushed him off. “The Hive are good at a lot of—at _some_ stuff. The Hive are good at some stuff and radio isn’t one of them.”  
“You’re sure?” O’Brien asked earnestly.   
“We can’t be sure of that, can we?” Oh, that’s right. Garak had hung back behind Julian and O’Brien while Cayde scouted ahead.   
“Garak,” Julian sighed. “I said you could join us on the _condition_ that you would play along. I briefed you and Miles on your characters. You know Tal Morr wouldn’t be questioning his commanding officer like this.”  
“That was strictly out of character, dear doctor.” Garak replied. K’laka, who’d been quiet until then, piped up. She was jacked into their helmets’ com network so the others could hear her.   
“He wants spoilers.”  
“This isn’t a Cardassian opera, Garak,” Julian felt himself smiling despite himself. “Just let yourself experience the story.”  
“Yeah,” O’Brien added. “I like these kinds of hollo-novels. Half the fun is not knowing what’s gonna happen. Bashir and I usually go for the historical ones, y’know? Already know the ending.”  
“This is historical,” Cayde said. “There’s an ogre in the center courtyard.”  
“Acknowledged.” Julian waited for an acolyte to turn around and then gestured for O’Brien to follow him to the next bit of cover. “Garak, forward. And Cayde and I know the ending.”  
“How’s it end?” O’Brien asked and Julian almost shoved at him.   
“Miles, don’t encourage him.” Julian rolled his eyes behind his visor. He was decked out in shades of bright purple and stark white as Praxic Hunter (and Julian’s friend) T’Lini of Vulcan, a long cloak falling down his bag in two wide strips. It was difficult to keep from being seen in his now-iconic Crocus armor but their hollo-suite program knew that she didn’t once get spotted by the Hive during the fabled Ballistic Heartbreak Strike. At least not according to the field reports that the program was pulling from.   
“What? I wanna know if we’re walking into some sappy love story. Title like ‘Ballistic Heartbreak’.”  
“It’s the name of a sniper rifle if that makes you feel better,” Julian said. He could hear the exasperation in his own voice. They could all hear the way K’laka giggled.   
“I thought we weren’t sharing spoilers, Dr. Bashir.” And Julian especially could hear the wry, lilting wit in Garak’s voice. He tried not to sigh too loudly.  
“Hey I’ve got a question,” O’Brien spoke up again. Cayde sounded amused when he responded.  
“Okay but then we’re moving in on the ogre. Aim for its big ugly face. Wizards up high,” Cayde’s voice was cool and even. The group heard one, two, three sniper rounds. “One wizard down. In the dirt. Face first.”  
“Your little flashlight buddy,” O’Brien was referencing the way that K’laka had helped them through a dark passage; just as T’lini’s Ghost, Besu1, had done for the real Fireteam during the original Ballistic Heartbreak Strike.  
“I’m a Ghost, actually,” K’laka managed to orally role her eye.   
“Yeah, Ghost, whatever. Why don’t we get those? As our characters I mean.”  
“Bashir thought it’d be weird for you guys,” Cayde said. “He’s considerate that way. Computer, reinstate previously-removed Ghosts.” There was a sort of cascading static sound and an electronic beep.  
“Why are we always in the back?” a noticeably-electronic-sounding voice grumbled. Tal Morr’s Ghost had a damaged vocal processor.   
“We’re supporting our teammates, Iliad,” Garak’s voice was his usual syrupy smooth.   
“That’s why I gave you Tal,” Julian said. “You sound just like him. Alright, everyone back into character and let’s take care of this ogre. Morr, forward. Beverly, with me.” He sprinted out from behind their cover and into the main building in front of them. It was a sort of domed structure dotted with yellow orbs and ovals that pulsed with a sickly yellow glow. Two acolytes turned on their heels and fired at Julian and O’Brien as they sprinted past them. There was a shrill, panicked scream and O’Brien stumbled and fell.   
“What the hell!?”  
“Sorry!” The voice came back, high-pitched and somehow out of breath despite not having lungs. Cayde giggled.  
“I met Ethan Beverly and his Ghost once. He had an allergic reaction to something in his salad and Ryf spent the whole rest of the night warning people not to eat it.” As he was speaking, Julian was reloading out of habit as Hive rounds slammed into his chest. The acolytes were both screaming and more thrall were rising out of the unseen depths around them to shamble toward the fallen Guardian. O’Brien landed a few shots on the thrall and they stumbled backwards in shock. The acolytes both fell to Julian’s rounds and then the thrall to his Thunderstrike. Lightning crackled out of his palm and into a large bowie knife between his fingers. He threw the knife and it went straight through one thrall’s shoulder before imbedding itself in a second one’s gut. They both shriveled with a haunting scream.   
There were more thrall then, almost all of them turning away from O’Brien and Julian and toward Garak. He was coming up toward the wreckage O’Brien and Bashir had been hiding behind.   
“I got no line of sight,” Cayde sounded panicked (because he knew Rubi-10 would have been with her lover in danger. Cayde wasn’t the best at staying in character, he had his moments).   
“Stay where you are,” Julian hefted his gun again and fired into the crowd of thrall. They were dozens now, all screaming and clawing and shambling. Bunched up together like they were Julian only saw a writhing pass of limbs and claws and horrid mouths. He could feel K’laka’s presence in the back of his head, for a moment weighing more than it usually did. She whispered something to him through that bond, something the others didn’t need to hear.  
Oh.  
He took a deep breath. This was nothing but a simulation. His friend was in no real danger. The Thunderstrike hadn’t been real and the Storm grenade he felt welling beneath his elbow didn’t need to be real either. He took a another deep breath and shook out his hand. The tiny arcs of blue-white lightning that sparked off his arm were real. The Arcbolt grenade he launched into the writing thrall was not.   
“Thank you, doctor.” Garak said as he jogged up to them, then cleared his throat. “I appreciate it, T’Lini. Are you alright, Beverly?” Garak and Julian both helped haul O’Brien to his feet. Ryf was quietly panicking, apologizing over and over again for their screaming.   
“We good?” Cayde asked smoothly.  
“We are,” Julian answered for them. “Let’s move.” K’laka put on a voice, low and gravely.  
“Let’s try to avoid further outbursts,” she said and Julian couldn’t help but laugh.  
“Are you _doing_ Besu?”  
“Yes! You’re doing T’Lini. ‘Let’s move’. We’re trying to roleplay here, Guardian,” she cleared a throat she didn’t have. “Try to get ahold of yourself, Scurryfunge2.”  
“Sorry, Besu. Sorry _Ethan_.”  
“It’s alright little guy,” O’Brien cooed, seemingly less unsettled by his own holographic Ghost that he was by Julian’s own nuts and bolts one.  
“Let’s move,” Julian repeated and nodded toward the domed structure.  
“Meet ‘ya down there,” Cayde said and they could hear him lift off from his perch. “Aim for its big, ugly face.”  
No sooner had they all stepped into the structure did a trio of knights all lock their boomer cannons onto them. Julian lifted into the air effortlessly, switching from his rifle to a rocket launcher with one smooth motion. The story dictated that two of the knights fell to T’Lini’s Steel Oracle. Instead, O’Brien surged forward, cloaked in white-blue energy. A Striker’s shoulder charge. He knocked the wind out of the second knight and its stumbled, its gun arm flailing. Julian’s second rocket landed inches from where O’Brien stopped, missing both him and the knight completely. He touched down on the floor on the balls of his feet and knelt to reload his launcher.   
“You could’ve hit me!” O’Brien sounded scandalized.  
“Happens,” Cayde was on the other end of the room, drawing the Ogre’s fire. It threw its head back and roared. The room shook, chitin dust falling from the ceiling and collecting on their shoulder plating. O’Brien stumbled backwards but didn’t fall, hefting his gun at the towering creature.  
“What the hell i—”  
“It’s an ogre,” Julian barely aimed the rocket he fired at the knight O’Brien had hit. There was still one left and Garak let out some kind of grunting battlecry when he launched an axion bolt at it. Two bolts of void energy danced around the knight, slamming into his thorax and rending parts of its arms and ribs from the rest of its writhing form. What was left were gaping holes; the edges, semi-atomized, seem to flap in the draft billowing through the Hive compound.   
Garak made another noise, one of surprise and horror instead of astonishment. Somewhere behind the group, more thrall roared. Julian switched to a shot gun and finished off the knight.  
“Good work, Garak,” he said and turned to the parade of thrall headed their way.  
“Computer, freeze program,” O’Brien said and everything—the thrall, the ogre, Julian’s buckshot, the dust still raining down on them—froze around them. All of their helmets blinked away and Julian stood up, K’laka shimmering into existence beside him.   
“Something wrong, Miles?” Julian asked, his spiked adrenaline making his bounce on the balls of his feet. Cayde was jogging over.   
“What,” O’Brien pointed at the ogre again. “Is. That?”  
“It’s an—” Julian was confused for a moment, then he looked at the thing again, all chitinous, its face bulbous and pulsing. He turned back to O’Brien. “It’s a monster, Miles. Our job is to kill it… it’s Hive siege engine. All Hive tech is bioorganic, so are their tanks. Its main weapon,” he pointed up at the eye beam, just leaving the ogre’s face. “Is also its main weakness.”  
“Aim for its big ugly face,” Cayde repeated, leaning his sniper against his shoulder. He was dressed as Rubi-10, a lonesome Hunter who rarely engaged in Strikes. Her signature style was a bright candy-apple red, her cloak wrapped twice around her neck and acid-damaged at the ends. “Bashir wanted to brief you guys more on the baddies in here,” he smiled cheekily. “I wanted to see your reaction. You good Garak?” Julian looked at him. Garak was staring down at his hand, flexing his fist over and over again. He looked up with a start.  
“I’m fine,” he said and hefted his gun. Tal Morr carried a custom-made, silver-plated rifle.   
“You’re sure?” Julian’s eyes were soft and Garak… looked at him. Again, you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know Elim Garak but Julian _knew_ Elim Garak. And Elim Garak _looked_ at him.   
“We all good?” Cayde put his thumbs up. “We’re almost at the best part.” Garak nodded. O’Brien looked at the ogre again and sighed. He looked at Julian and nodded. Cayde jumped up a little and then turned to jog back to his place. “Computer, resume program.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Besu is Vulcan for “companion” :D  
> 2) Scurryfunge is an old English world for when a guest is coming over and you hurry around your house making things neat. Their nickname is Ryf because Ethan Beverly can’t really pronounce old English words very well because of his Spanish accent.


	26. The Game Part 2: Rip and Tear

The way that the program reconciled Guardian not-death-death was to take the player out of the simulation for a few seconds. To that end, O’Brien was lying in a crater on his back unable to move. He could observe the rest of the battle through a display in his helmet, but otherwise he had to wait for his Ghost to gather enough Light energy to revive him. This deep into Darkness territory that took around a minute or so. It felt like hours.   
Being in this simulation wasn’t like the others Julian and he had played through. Fighting the Hive wasn’t the same as battling Roman soldiers or Gerry dogfighters. And it wasn’t like fighting the Cardassians in the trenches, flanked by Federation soldiers. Fighting the Hive… being a Guardian… was visceral and physical in a way that nothing else was. Nothing. It was ripping and tearing through enemies with your bare hands and firing handguns at building-sized monsters and actually _felling_ them. It was being covered in ichor and blood and you don’t know whose blood it _was_.   
It was screaming and gunfire and a lightning storm erupting from his best friend’s fingertips. Julian had encouraged O’Brien to use his own lightning super, something called a Fist of Havoc. He’d refused and ended up crushed in a crater, smothered by those insufferable thrall things.   
Ten seconds to go. Julian was there, in his ridiculous purple armor. He cradled O’Brien’s Ghost in one hand. As O’Brien understood it, he was lending some Light energy to help his Ghost along in the process of getting him up. Something surged in his chest and he wasn’t sure how much of it was the program. The next thing he knew he was on his feet.  
“Come on,” Julian was bouncing on the balls of his feet and he sounded out of breath, incredibly excited. “Last room, then the grand finale!” he was sprinting away before O’Brien could reply. O’Brien ran after him without thinking about it too much. Oh. And that. That was what fighting like a Guardian was: It was sprinting after your friend as he led you into a room full of things that wanted to kill you really, really badly. And someone of them could kill you with their faces. When had he started thinking of Julian as his friend again?  
“Woo!” Cayde flutter-jumping past him, his entire being glowing with a strange orange-gold energy. He hadn’t been glowing like that before, had he? When he used his super move thing? No, he was purple before.  
“Cayde!” His Ghost, Serenity, scolded and he stopped short.  
“Woopsie,” he took a few deep breaths—did androids need to breathe? Data hadn’t needed to breathe—and the orange-gold disappeared. It was replaced with a purple-black aura and that aura felt a lot more… fake? Oh god.  
“Holy shit,” O’Brien breathed. “Were you just gonna,” Cayde leapt into the air and fired a purple-black bow. A spear-sized arrow shot through the air and skewered two acolytes at one. Tendrils sprung out from that spear and tethered several other Hive soldiers.   
“Happens,” Cayde threw over his shoulder, sounding delighted. O’Brien shook his head. He fired into the crowd of tethered enemies and they shrieked and shriveled.   
“Wish they’d shut up,” O’Brien sneered behind his helmet.  
“They’re pretty quiet when they’re dead,” Cayde was fanning the hammer on his hand cannon. Julian had yelled at him for using it, as it wasn’t a replica of any of Rubi-10’s weapons, but rather his own favorite side arm. He’d continued using it and Julian had rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.   
There was another roar. The entire structure shook. Dust fell and pieces of the ceiling fell. The ground shook beneath them. O’Brien lifted his rifle, eyes darting around the room. There was another roar and his ears hurt despite none of this being real. Cayde and Julian fell back on his position, motioning for Garak to follow them.  
“This is the fun part,” Julian breathed.  
“Is it?” O’Brien was excited despite himself, adrenaline surging, heart pounding in his ears. Something opened on the far wall. It had looked like some kind of round decoration but now O’Brien supposed it was some sort of door. A door that was just little too big for an enormous knight—well, it wasn’t that much bigger than any of the other knights they’d faced; maybe the door was to make it look bigger—to claw its way out of. It readied a boomer cannon that was easily as long as O’Brien was tall and aimed it right at the four of them.  
“Ready?” Cayde was bouncing now too. He didn’t wait for any kind of reply before he was sprinting off to some spot to their right. The knight roared again and dozens and dozens of thrall appeared at its feet, clawing their way through the door as he had. They were sprinting for the three remaining teammates as Cayde drew the knight’s fire.   
“Try your supper out on them, Miles,” Julian nudged his side with his shoulder. O’Brien aimed his rifle at the approaching hoard.  
“I’ll get by,” he said and fired. One, two, three thrall fell, only to be replaced almost immediately with more pouring out of the door. They wouldn’t stop _screaming_. Julian looked at him for a second, sending his knife into the chest of the closest thrall. Garak was meleeing them too, but without any Void energy behind it. Instead of being flensed apart they only flopped over and shriveled.  
Julian jumped into the air, hopping backwards away from the hoard and Garak followed him, fumbling as he switched his gun. His secondary weapon was a fusion rifle, one that needed to charge up before behind fired but that could rip through these horrid things three at a time. There were still more coming.   
O’Brien stayed where he was, throwing punch after punch. He hurled a grenade far into the back of the hoard and it sparked to life, jolting over and over again to electrocute groups of thrall. O’Brien switched to his shotgun and ripped throw one and a half at a time.  
“Miles, get out of there,” Julian sounded too desperate for his words to be an order. O’Brien turned and sprinted after him anyway, three-clawed hands scrambling after his back, reaching for his ankles. He stumbled and tripped but was up again almost instantly, feeling the strange tingle at the end of his fingertips that meant his shoulder charge was up. He turned on a dime. Julian was calling out to him to stop. The knight was firing on Cayde. Garak was letting out some kind of crazed-sounding war cry.   
His shoulder charge sent exactly one thrall flying into the rest. There was a split second of confusion in the group as two thrall threw the corpse off of their shoulders and then everything was claws and screaming and blood and screaming and darkness and darkness and darkness and screaming and darkness.  
And then, again, his best friend was a storm. Something like what you read about in myths, a man who is not a man wielding a staff of pure lightning. The first time O’Brien had seen Julian burst into a flurry of blue-white sparks and swing that staff over his head, he had been “dead”, watching the action from just over Julian’s shoulder. Now, among a hoard of thrall, their bodies charring and folding in on themselves at the touch of Julian’s staff or the tips of his fingers, O’Brien felt as if he was caught up in a storm, raging and spinning and so wholly disorientating that he thought the hollo-suit’s safety measures were going to kick in. A part of him wanted them to. That same part of him screamed inside his own head that he should pause the program; he opened his mouth and choke on the stench of electrical burns and carbonized flesh even through his helmet.   
There was an arm on his bicep. Garak was hauling him out of the cloud of thrall and lightning as Julian finished off a few more before having to retreat himself, that lightning staff turning to dust and ozone between his fingers. He threw a grenade at his feet and then took off sprinting toward Garak and O’Brien. There was a noise in O’Brien’s ear, a sort of vibration or wave, and it wasn’t until Julian was plowing into him and Garak that he realized that the sound was Julian’s boisterous, rolling laugh. O’Brien hit the pitted floor hard. He felt like his back had lurched up and slammed into his chest. Garak landed on his side and then struggled to stand back up while Julian simply combat rolled onto his feet and leveled his shotgun at the oncoming hoard.   
It was Garak who got O’Brien up to his feet. He was distantly aware of Julian asking him if he was alright, of Cayde warning everyone that the knight had finally noticed them, of the never ending screech of wave after wave of thrall. He knew Julian wasn’t laughing anymore but the sound was still echoing in his head.


	27. The Game Part 3: Gods and Monsters

People write about the Void in books. Warlocks spend—have spent—millennia trying to find the words to describe the empty silence that fills the air in the second after a Nightstalker looses an arrow, the way the air inside a Ward of Dawn fizzles and cracks, and then stills. They have had to invent words to describe the noise of a Nova Bomb leaving its Warlock’s hand, for the way the tips of that Warlock’s fingers buzz with energy. What’s actually happening is the last digit leaves this reality for a split second. For a moment, the smallest part of them, the very end of their physical being, touches the Void, touches nothing. No, not nothing. Not nothing and not something. The very concept of stillness, of emptiness, of absence.   
It is logical to think that what could not be captured in words across thousands of years of study and recording could surely be captured—in the least glimpsed, grasped at—in the three dimensional space of a holosuite. People have spent centuries trying to explain why this is not true, why the Void—the experience of its resplendent stillness—cannot be properly captured in holographic form. It makes even less sense when they know that simulated Solar, warmth and breath and the beating heart of a dancing flame can still burn away the cold. When they know that holographic Arc, crackle and dance and the snap of impulse and attraction, makes hair stand on end and smells of ozone and petrichor.   
Very little things about the Void make sense. And perhaps that is why so many choose to study it. The thrill of a puzzle that refuses to be solved, that changes its own rules as soon as a solution becomes clear.   
The Void has never been accurately simulated. The glimpses of its power captured in hologram are too plain, too slow, too full. There’s too much of it and then moves too much. It swell and ebbs and flows like an ocean in a storm instead of a placid lake on a windless day.   
And so when Garak loosed his first Nova Bomb, a mere facsimile of the concentrated nothing that Tal Morr wielded, he was not only viewing only a fraction of the power he could be witnessing, but also viewing it through distortion. There was crack in his lens. The Void is not being. It is the opposite of being. And in that moment, Elim Garak _was_.   
“I am like a god,” Garak breathed. He stumbled and fell flat onto his back. There, sprawled out across the floor of a stinking, festering cave on a moon that orbited a planet that no one would ever set foot on again, there with a ridge of chitin sticking into his back, Elim Garak was warm. He was warm deep in his chest, across his shoulder blades, down to the tips of his fingers. He thought, perhaps, that this was what Tal Morr had felt when he’d rescued his lover from the scourge of their greatest enemy. He wondered if this was what gods felt like when they breathed life into their myriad creations. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be one of their closest creations. To be a messenger of the gods. A messenger and a herald and warrior. A blade. A shield. A weapon.  
This was all a simulation and yet, Garak was like a god. And Julian Bashir, looking down him, teeth bared and brow wrinkled in concentration and confusion, his eyes crinkling at the corners, was like the answer to a prayer.  
“What was that?” Julian asked and offered him a hand. He didn’t take it at first.  
“That was my super,” Garak breathed. His chest wasn’t heaving but he felt his breaths leaving his body in shutters and waves.  
“No, I mean, what did you say?” Julian flexed his hand. Garak took it and was hauled up onto his feet.   
“Oh, I,” Garak’s eyes darted around. The others were far off and their coms were off when their helmets were, right? He asked. Julian nodded. “I said that I am like a god, Doctor. When I did that,” he held a hand out, fingers splayed out as far as they could go, mimicking a Warlock’s melee gesture. Julian had showed him how to do it, laughing and smiling playfully on their way to the Hive citadel. “When I destroye—”  
“No,” Julian put a hand on his shoulder and Garak had never felt his dear friend’s grip so tight. “You were playing a Guardian, Garak, and,” he took a quick breath, like he was calming himself down. Garak smiled, tilted his head curiously. A Dr. Bashir who was angry, truly incensed, was a rare sight for him. He needed to savor this moment, preserved every detail in his mind’s eye. Save it for later. The doctor continued:  
“I don’t want to tell you what to do, but please. You were not a god just then. If anything you were working for a god,” Julian sighed. “It just makes me uncomfortable.”  
“Are you religious, Doctor? Spiritual?”  
“I,” there had once been an easy answer to that question. Julian missed those times. He missed last month. “Garak,” he sighed again. “Garak, I’m a weapon.”  
“Of course, Doctor,” Garak said too quickly. Julian nodded. Cayde and O’Brien caught his eye in the distance. They were talking, laughing at something and patting shoulders. Or rather, Cayde was trying to engage in some jovial comradery and O’Brien looked… distant. Cayde turned and looked at him and waved. Garak nodded at him. Julian turned and looked at them, waved for them to come over.   
“That was…” O’Brien searched for a word.  
“Exhilarating,” Garak’s eyes were wide with wonder.  
“Fun?” Cayde’s voice was playful and he hopped around on the balls of his feet, poking at O’Brien’s side and arm. “It was fun, right?”  
“Scary,” O’Brien looked at Julian and seemed to see him for the first time since the story had ended. “Wha—Julian, why are you blue?”  
“Hm?” Julian’s brow furrowed for a moment before he remembered who he was playing. “Oh! That meeting of Dark energy and Light at the end transmogrified T’Lini into an Awoken Vulcan. You saw Commander Zavala before. He’s an Awoken human. Technically the last scene of this story is T’Lini beginning to realize that she might not be Vulcan anymore.”  
“Might not be?” O’Brien quirked an eyebrow. “She can fly and shoot lightning out of her hands. Doesn’t seem very Vulcan to me.”  
“Hunters don’t fly,” Cayde sounded offended.   
“Those are just Guardian things,” Julian waved it off. He could feel Garak staring at him but chose to ignore it. “Becoming Awoken, I suppose I can’t really speak very much on it, but becoming Awoken changes you on a molecular level, and there are cultural things to consider an—”  
“But you said Guardians have their own culture,” O’Brien interjected. He gestured around them. “This program is a part of Guardian culture, right? Ripping through enemy forces with your bare hands? Worse than Klingons, you lot. Klingons have honor, a touch of civility.”  
“Yes,” Cayde struck a pose. “But _we_ have style. So who’s the real winner here?”  
“Cayde please,” Julian sighed.   
“And!” O’Brien threw his rifle down and Julian flinched. In the back of his head, off the com channel, K’laka muttered about respecting their tools. Even if it was just a simulation. “They don’t revel in it. No soldier does. You had _fun_ in there!”  
“It’s a hollo-suite program!” Julian hissed. “It’s supposed to be fun! Dogfight in WWII is fun for us!”  
“But we weren’t there, Julian. It didn’t happen to _us_. You’re reliving something that your people did in living memory and you’re jumping and skipping through it! You told us that you knew T’Lini of Vulcan, right?” Julian nodded. “And she up and changed species at the end of this? That’s traumatic, Julian!” He nodded again and then watched O’Brien’s face turn red as he continued. “And you’re here, living out her trauma! Living out—That’s wrong, Julian! And it’s fucking _wrong_.”  
“It’s a Legend,” Julian said quietly and O’Brien only stared at him. “This is the story of a Legend. It doesn’t matter if the Legend lives or not. It’s fun to relive a great victory against the hive. This is the first step in the creation of her Exotic sniper rifle Ballistic Heartbreak. Rubi-10 uses—it’s not,” he sighed. “I don—Miles I wanted to share this with you because it’s something we love. I thought,” he took a deep breath. Garak’s Light-damned eyes were still boring into him and he whipped his head around. “Garak _what is it_?”  
“Your new aesthetic, Doctor,” he said plainly. “It’s very fetching.”  
“You didn’t notice before?” Cayde’s voice was lilting and laughful.   
“I wasn’t looking anywhere but his eyes,” Garak’s voice, on the other hand, was soft and breathy and Julian _so_ did not have time to figure _that_ out. He took another deep breath and suddenly everything was bubbling out of him at once. Pain and frustration and anger, white, hot blinding anger and sorrow. Heavy, wet sorrow that stuck to his back and pushed down on his shoulders; when it slumped forward under its own weight, he moved too, surging toward O’Brien with something like a snarl.  
“Don’t you see, Miles!?” he heard himself shout before he realized he was doing it. “This isn’t just an auto-fire scout rifle! It’s not just a _model_ of—Tal Morr told everyone –the legend was that Anyway could curse an enemy.”  
“Anyway?”  
“The name of the gun. Guardian weapons are a part of us, a part of our teams and our families. We name them. We care for them. I am a weapon and so is this,” he shook Apple of Discord. “But some weapons are legends. Cayde-6,” he pointed at him. “Guardian Vanguard who mapped the Pillars of Creations and who tracked the Vault of Glass,” Cayde rubbed his knuckles on his chest, looking proud and boastful. Julian pointed at Garak. “Tal Morr, scourge of the Seven Kings, feller of Giant’s Husk, wielder of the Exotic Scout Rifle _Anyway_ ,” he took the gun from Garak and he held it in both hands like it was delicate and precious. It was a simulation but he was still reverent of it.  
“The legend says that if ever he landed a head shot on an enemy, if that enemy killed him, that enemy would die. Would just drop. One bullet from Tal Morr’s gun meant death for the monster he put it in. Because Guardians don’t care what Wizards think is impossible! Miles, _how_ how are you not excited about this!? Do you know that you were one of the people I thought wouldn’t pull away from me? You’re perfect, you were a solider and you love stories of heroes and triumph. I _am_ a story of triumph, damn it!”   
Cayde put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he jumped. He was breathing heavy, chest and shoulders heaving. His face was wet. He was crying? As soon as he realized that, he was fucking sobbing. He was shaking and crying out and stumbling into Cayde’s chest. The Hunter wrapped his arms around him and K’laka was suddenly at his shoulder, nudged against him. Her eye was lighting up like she was talking but O’Brien couldn’t hear.   
“I’m gonna take Bashir to his quarters,” Cayde said quietly. Garak stepped forward and put a hand on Julian’s shoulder.   
“I’ll take him,” he said and O’Brien had never heard the Cardassian sound so vulnerable. O’Brien was just standing there. He felt that his mouth was hanging slack. He stared at Julian but he didn’t move forward. Didn’t comfort him. why wasn’t he comforting him? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t wrap an arm around his best friend’s shoulders? His best friend! Godfather to his son. And he watched Garak walk out of the hollo-suite. And into Quarks? Oh! Oh people would be staring. Julian was still sobbing. Anyone who stared or whispered could sod off. O’Brien was striding after them before he even thought about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotions \o/


	28. The Walk

People did stare. And they did whisper. And O’Brien did tell them to shove their gossip up an intake valve. And he and Cayde and Julian and Garak did run in Worf and Zavala and Jake Sisko walking down the promenade.  
“Cayde,” Zavala was poised to scold.  
“Julian’s not feeling too well,” the Hunter said quickly and the group turned quickly toward the turbolift, huddled around Julian like penguins in a snow storm, desperate to keep their smallest kin warm. Zavala saw Jake’s stylus move out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t even glance at him, just reached over and grabbed the tool hard enough to snap it in half.  
“Not a word of that,” he said, not looking at the young man. Jake was gaping at the enormous fist closed around his poor, snapped stylus. A gust of air had practically slammed into his chest when Zavala’s arm had moved and now there was the beginning of an ache in his ribs. He knew the Titan hadn’t touched him but the ache, was there nonetheless. And that was the threat more than the stylus was, wasn’t it? Jake looked up at Zavala and was met with bright, flashy-blue side-eye.   
“Of course not,” he said and stepped away. Zavala handed him back the two pieces of his styles, then reached in a pouch on his belt.   
“My apologies. Those things are fragile, aren’t they?” the one he handed to Jake was branded with the Titan logo and the horse-bird creature that Zavala wore on his armor. A griffin? He’s learned about those in secondary school. Greek myth. How were they on an alien shoulder plate? An alien pen?  
“Thank you,” he nodded quickly.  
“And in exchange,” Zavala turned to him fully, glancing at Worf for a moment. “I will give you a better story. Something good. Something hopeful.”  
“For which side, Commander?” Jake asked without thinking. Zavala chuckled.  
“You say that like there are only two,” he shook his head. “This, Jake, is very good for almost everyone. The Dominion will be disappointed, I hope.”


	29. The Vanguard at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter this week cause the last one was super short \o/

**This is Who’s Come to Dinner** by Jacob Sisko.  
_Yesterday, the Guardian Vanguard arrived at the Deep Space 9 Orbital Space Station to much fanfare and trepidation. The devote of Bajor flocked to the station in droves, much to the ire of the station’s Chief of Security Constable Odo. Truly, the station had not seen crowds so fervent since the arrival of Captain Benjamin Sisko, the Prophets’ Emissary and the station’s commanding officer. At the same time, many people looked on at the docking of_ Andal’s Pride _with a palpable fear and consternation. The habitat ring swelled to maximum occupancy as many followers hunkered down to camp out and wait for the chance to glimpse the three fabled commanders of the Secret Warriors: Ikora Rey, Cayde-6, and Commander Zavala._  
_We had no way of knowing that these powerful figures of legend and Bajoran folklore would simply be walking among the people of DS9 just a few short hours after their arrival. Each Vanguard had lunch with a member of the crew, and then took to their own leisure activities. When I spoke with Commander Zavala, he explained that the Secret Warriors do not often have the chance to be socialize with the people they are sworn to protect._  
_“It’s good to be here,” he said as we, joined by Lt. Commander Worf, walked the promenade. “I do wish it were under different circumstances, but I’m glad we paid your station a visit. The people here, the unity that your Captain has fostered, are a testament to why Guardians do what we do.”_  
_I asked Cdr. Zavala to elaborate on that last point and he explained that people of different cultures and classes coming together to coexist peacefully is something that was extremely rare when he was, say, my age._  
_“This isn’t just a Bajoran station, or a Star Fleet one. There is no sense of assimilation or hegemony here. It’s difficult to achieve such a thing. And beautiful.”_  
_Cdr. Zavala had just had lunch with our resident tactician Worf, son of Mogh. They spoke about the station and Guardian life, the recently-broken statute of secrecy maintained by Guardians, and of their respective hobbies. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with Worf knows that his passion for Klingon opera and poetry burns just as bright as his love for glory on the battlefield. It turns out that Cdr. Zavala, who supervises the stalwart and ferocious Titan Class Guardians, enjoys crochet. He showed me a wristband he made with the emblem of the First City, a mythic Guardian citadel, stitched into it. Zavala and Worf have pledged themselves to a sort of cultural exchange; Zavala is going to listen to Worf’s favorite operas, and Worf is going to try his hand at crochet. I suggested he start with a scarf because it seemed easier than a hat to wristband. Zavala explained that crafting can be deceptively simple._  
_Worf will have a chance to practice his new hobby in the coming days. He has a long journey ahead of him now that he’s been assigned to represent Star Fleet and the Klingon Empire on a diplomatic mission in the Gamma Quadrant. Along with Lt. Jadzia Dax, Worf has been attached to a team of Guardians called Mercy Delta; our own Dr. Julian Bashir is also a part of this team, serving as their medical officer and xenobiologist._  
_Their mission is to extend a hand of diplomacy to the Changeling Dominion in order to prevent the misunderstandings and misgivings that occurred here in the Alpha Quadrant…_  
The article went on to speak optimistically about Mercy Delta’s “diplomatic” mission to the “the center of The Dominion”. Cayde squinted at the padd. He was holding it a bit too tightly and Ikora saw the subtle way his servos shook. She reached over from the center of their bed—they’d requested a single room and had received a suit, thus forcing them to shove two of the beds together in the main room1—and lay her hand on top of his. Hers were smaller but his mechanical fingers were much more slender.  
“Are you alright?” Her voice was still heavy and groggy. Guardians in general didn’t have the best relationship with sleep, but the three of them tended to get at least a few REM cycles in on the rare occasion that scheduling allowed them to all be together.  
“I don’t like this,” Cayde gestured with the padd. Ikora sat up, shiny-silk blankets falling away from her naked body—a luxury afforded by their current status as diplomates begging for their way of life—and took the padd from him. He waited patiently for her to finish reading the whole thing. With Ikora’s reading speed it was about a minute and half. Distantly, Cayde was aware of Zavala moving their in their ensuite bathroom, the sound of a sonic shower clicking off.  
“Hm,” Ikora said finally and handed it back. “I don’t know, I thought it was rather well written.” She looked at him through her eyelashes in what passed as a playful and wry look in most cultures.  
“You made a joke!” Cayde clapped once. “You know, under normal circumstances I would be so, so proud of you,” he patted her shoulder and she blinked slowly at hm. “But right now our boyfriend is putting the success of our entire operation at risk by lying to the press.” The bathroom door slid open and Zavala all but swaggered into the room, wearing a dressing gown and patting his head with a soft towel.  
“Good morning,” he said, looking at the two of them the way he always did in private moments: like they’d worked together to forge the stars themselves.  
“Cayde has some business concerns,” Ikora said as rolled out of bed. She made her way to her armor crate and started getting dressed. Cayde expected her to pull on something casual; they didn’t have any meetings that day. The day-to-day happenings of DS9 still needed to happen. Instead she began the lengthy process of putting on her layer Warlock robes until she was replete in bulletproof professionalism. Wordlessly, she moved into the next room, which they had been using as a makeshift war room while on the station.  
Cayde looked over at Zavala. The Titan lowered his head for a moment, something like dread crossing his features. Cayde slid back out of bed and cupped Zavala’s head in his hands. Zavala smiles at him and they stood for a moment just taking each other in. And then in was time to get dressed, also in their professional wear, and join Ikora in the next room.  
“I don’t like you lying to that Sisko kid,” Cayde said, crossing his arms and leaning back against a table. His best maps and start charts of the Gamma Quadrant were spread across it, little models of the Dominion prison and the Fireteams’ ships sitting on top.  
“The details of the Strike were all that I changed,” Zavala said adamantly.  
“You say that like you didn’t unilaterally decide to lie to the press while I was too busy helping Dr. Bashir not vomit too many of his emotions onto DS9’s shiny metal floors.” Cayde was trying not to be too loud.  
“How is Julian, by the way?” Ikora asked calmly. “When I stopped by to check on him yesterday, that Cardassian man was still with him.”  
“He’ll be fine,” Cayde said. “Mourning a friendship.”  
“I told Jake Sisko what we needed him to hear,” Zavala said.  
“Uh-huh. Isn’t the secret trading Ikora’s job?” Cayde was getting louder, gesturing with his padd.  
“It is,” Ikora nodded. “And I have never had the Hidden make a move that affected a larger campaign or Section-wide business without running it by the two of you. As that is our policy,” her gaze fell on Zavala and Cayde could see the way he wilted beneath it. “Cayde’s right. Manipulating the press is not something that we do.”  
“We are in a desperate situation,” Zavala was doing an excellent impression of someone who wasn’t being burned by Ikora’s eyes the way a bug is under a magnifying glass. “It’s true that I made the decision to push Jake’s story in a way that benefitted us without consulting my team—”  
“Oh don’t spin this,” Cayde snapped.  
“I did the wrong thing,” Zavala admitted the way the first rock in a landslide begins to fall. “In the future, I will consult you. You have my word. I stand by my decision, however. Making everyone—including Weyoun and his Dominion spies—think that the Strike team is going to The Link rather than their holding facility is paramount to the success of this Strike.”  
“Hey, hey, Zavala,” Cayde waved a hand in front of his face. “We’re _trying_ to make these people _like_ us. They already think we’re hideous monsters. Can we not add liars and charlatans to that list? Can we do that?”  
“I will deal with the fallout of Jake’s story when the Strike team returns,” Zavala’s expression hardened.  
“Yes,” Ikora said. “You will.” Ikora’s Ghost, materialized next to her and informed the group that Fireteam Delta Mercy would be ready to depart the Station within the hour. “Thank you, Gebes. And, I think we’ll be presenting our hosts with an old Guardian tradition when they get back. Prepare a pyre.”  
“Are you serious?” Cayde whirled around the face her. “I love a war dance as much as the next mech, but Ikora are you _serious_?”  
“You said it yourself: they already think of us as monsters.”  
“And marching trophies through this station is going to stop that?” Zavala asked incredulously.  
“We _are_ monsters, Zavala. Attempting to hide that part of ourselves is the most ingenuous part of this mission so far and I will see it halted. Zavala’s stunt may have been undesirable but it has given us a chance to be honest with the people of the Alpha Quadrant. I would hope that I would not have to remind you two that we are here to garner allies, not placate enemies.”  
There was a pause.  
“You’re right,” Cayde said finally. “You’re absolutely right.” He sighed and set the padd down on his map. “I guess the only thing now is to prepare for the proceedings tomorrow and hope that Strike goes off without a hitch.” He thought for a moment. “With as few hitches as possible.”  
“Thank you, Ikora,” Zavala bowed his head. Ikora nodded.  
“If you two will excuse me, I’m meeting Major Kira for coffee soon.” She breezed out of the room and, it seemed, each cog in this delicate machine that they had been trying to build and to operate seemed to click into place more finely. This was going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am aware that all of the beds on DS9 are moored to the floor because Space Craft Safety. However, I am also aware that very few things would keep Commander Zavala from snuggling his lovers at night, so there.


	30. The Concerns

The day the Vanguard arrived at Deep Space Nine, the science council was preparing to here an explanation of Substance 29. 

Three Guardians, Praafo Ava, Travu Jacag, and Zeenya Roye, were awaiting trial for breaking and entering, petty theft, and tempering with station systems. 

Devote of Bajor, including Kai Winn, were waiting to catch a glimpse of the leaders of the fabled Secret Warriors.

Fireteam Delta Mercy was waiting for the signal to launch a Strike against The Dominion and their treacherous, imperial meddling.

The Vanguard of Alpha Quadrant Section-998 were preparing for the shockwave of a fallout of an implosion that… perhaps, if they tried, could be surmounted. 

The Concordat was waiting to be declared victorious against the tyranny of these undead monstrosities that invaded and infected every part of civilized life. 

More than one sniveling, scheming Hive general was waiting for Bajor’s carefully-crafted defense grid to become vulnerable, for the chance to claw desperately at the barren throne of the Godkings.

And Guardians across the Alpha Quadrant were waiting for a sign that meant they would be forced to fail the people they were sworn to protect.

It was only ever wishful thinking that all of these things—that any significant number of these things—be addressed over a series of meetings taking place during one week of one year of one millennium. But the Game must be played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're stressed out and you know it clap your hands *clap clap*


	31. The Smiles

The _Fistful of Champagne1_ was a sleek, gold and silver thing with a brown and ivory interior that made excellent use of every square centimeter of space. A wall that appeared to be made of storage containers folded down into beds, a table and chairs were stored in the floor, a set of couches contained storage and supplies and folded down into flat beds, even the cockpit contained all manner of books and crannies and secret drawers. Dax peaked into the single bathroom to find it was probably the most spacious single chamber on the ship, with room enough for a toilet stall, two sinks, and a shower. She backed out of the room and bumped into something solid.  
“Apologies,”  
Dax whirled around to see a woman standing behind her wearing bright purple armor fitted tight to her muscular frame. She was Vulcan in hair and ears but her skin was a deep, rich shade of blue. Dax thought maybe she was half Andorian. Oh, what a love story her parents must’ve had. Her cloak, hanging down her back in two thick trips of fabric, was aflame with a dazzling geometric pattern. Her hair was dark and sharp and she had piercing nearly-black eyes that seemed to look straight through Dax.  
“Lt. Jadzia Dax,” she fell into parade rest and gave a Vulcan salute. The woman’s eyes flicked to her hand and then back to her face and she returned the salute.  
“T’Lini of Vulcan, Chief Tactician for Fireteam Mercy Delta. You are our Star Fleet attaché?”  
“The very same,” Dax smiled and T’Lini nodded, then stepped away into the main living space.  
“Welcome to the Champagne,” she gestured to one of the couches, where Dax had already set her bag. “You will be sleeping here. The main crew has quarters to the aft of the vessel, the cockpit is to the fore,” she gestured to the kitchen area to one side of the living space. “We tend to take our meals together, three a day until our mission begins. Our chef is not very skilled, but nothing has ever been inedible.”  
“You mean ‘nothing that she’s cooked’ or ‘nothing in general’?” Dax joked. T’Lini quirked a wide, perfect eyebrow.  
“I was speaking of Gexi’s cooking. But of course, there is a Guardian proverb: everything is edible. But some things only once,” she nodded sagely. Dax had been around long enough to hear plenty of Vulcans tell a joke, but it was rare enough that she still got a kick out of it every time. The door opened with a pneumatic hiss and then Julian let out a loud, breathy sigh.  
“Nice to see you too,” Dax smiled at him. He was in a different set of armor now; it was the same colors but there was no stole and the sash was replaced with a belt. The robe was a little shorter and the shoulders and gloves were much less pronounced. The helmet he had tucked under his arm that was reminiscent of some kind of horned animal.  
“Hi, Dax,” he breathed. His shoulders were low and at first Dax thought maybe this new robes was somehow heavier than the other one had been. She felt her own face soften when she realized he was just carrying so much more than he had been when the Vanguard first arrived, when he’d first revealed that he was a Guardian, weeks ago when the biggest thing any of them had to worry about what The Dominion knocking on the other side of the wormhole. Where had they gotten to in their lives when the megalomaniacal oligarchs needed to be _down_ the list of things to dread?  
“Hi,” she said a littler quieter and put a hand on his shoulder. His mouth pulled into a slow, easy smile and he looked at her in a way that reminded her of the way he looked at her when they first met, like she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, like he was grateful to have been graced by her presence. But now it was different. It was softer, lighter, more fluffy. A cat, once skittish and wary, now come to curl up beneath her arm. His smile got a little bigger and he blinked really slowly and it was like was grateful for be her friend, to have her as a friend, like her _soul_ was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And she smiled back and patted her arm and the two of them didn’t hear when T’Lini greeted the next person that stepped onto the ship.  
“Jadzia,” Worf took the two steps necessary for him to be right next to her in the small ship and she turned to him and switched smiles. It wasn’t a better or worse smile, but it was different. The one she reserved for her lover. Her love.  
“Worf,” she said, still smiling. “If you’re about to tell me how dangerous you think this mission is and how you would rather me stay behind, I’d just like to save you some time.” She was distantly aware of Julian moving away from them, of him and T’Lini talking. Worf smiled at her. The smile he too had reserved just for her. the one that always made her feel special.  
“I am glad that you understand that I will always fear for my Par’Mach’Kai’s wellbeing,” he said quietly, his gruff, rumbling voice growing soft and downy. A predator showing its vulnerable underbelly, asking for scritches. “Please know that I understand that you will not be listening to me on this or any other circumstance.”  
“Of course,” she nodded, her face serious for a moment. Her hands found his and squeezed and he leaned down, allowing her to reach up on her toes to meet him, touching their foreheads together for a moment.  
“That’s adorable,” T’Lini commented evenly. Worf’s head whipped around to look at her and she responded by saluting and introducing herself. Julian was doing a bad job at trying not to laugh.  
“You’ll be leading this expedition?” Worf asked. T’Lini nodded.  
“I understand that recovering General Martok is of personal importance to you, Worf?” T’lini asked.  
“His recovery is essential if we hope to keep the Klingon Empire from entering into war with Cardassia.” Worf answered brusquely.  
“I know that,” T’Lini said. “I asked what stake you had in this mission personally.” There was a pause. Worf adjusted his stance. T’Lini’s dark eyes were boring into him, unblinking and Dax couldn’t tell if she was trying to be challenging or not.  
“I do know the General,” Worf said finally. “And I would be _personally_ relieved to see him delivered out of Dominion hands.”  
“Thank you, Lt. Commander.” T’Lini nodded, finally breaking eye contact. “You and Lt. Dax will be staying here in the main room. We take our meals here, my quarters are that way if you need anything.”  
“You can just call me Dax,” Dax said friendlily as Worf walked over to sling his bag over his head and set it down on the couch she hadn’t claimed.  
“I cannot,” T’Lini replied and Julian did laugh at that. “Our pilot, Otovo, is already onboard but our social tactician went onto the station,”  
“She what?” Julian looked worried.  
“You have a Ferengi business man here. Gexi explained that she couldn’t resist ‘messing with him’.” T’Lini was speaking very matter-of-factly but the way that Julian sighed and looked toward the ceiling probably meant that trouble was brewing at Quark’s as they spoke.  
“Your tactician has a problem with Ferengi?” Jadzia was a little concerned. Quark was… Quark, but he was still her friend.  
“Grexi is,” Julian began and as if on cue, the doors hissed open next to Dax and in strolled a Ferengi woman wrapped in layers and layers of fabric, her head adorned in an elaborate jeweled headdress—silver to stand out against the deep brown of her skin, red and orange stones to play against her amber eyes, strings of brownish pearls hanging down around her lobes—and her arms full of bottles of blood wine, Andorian ale, and something thick and syrupy brown that Dax didn’t recognized. “That is Grexi.” There was a laugh just under Julian’s statement.  
“Hello all,” the woman smiled, her teeth sharp and crooked. “These our new recruits?” she moved into the kitchen area, the ends of her dress and multiple shawls dragging on the tiled floor. She set her bottles on the counter as T’Lini introduced Worf and Dax. “Nice to meet you both,” she said. “Grexi, daughter of Ooma. Sentinel Titan, but you don’t know what that means,” she waved it off.  
“Titans are Guardian warriors,” Worf provided.  
“We’re all warriors, Worf,” Julian looked just a touch offended and Dax couldn’t help but be amused.  
“Titans are truer warriors than other the other classes, you’d have to admit.” Grexi shrugged one shoulder. “Especially what a Klingon would call a warrior, if you don’t mind me saying. That’s just how y’all are, right? The respect you give Titans, a Vulcan would give Warlocks. Right, T’Lini? And hu-mons would give that to Hunters, probably. Ferengi wouldn’t give any respect to any class cause that’s how we are. Disrespectful. Like that lobeless puddle jumper what runs your bar. Got these off him in _one_ hand of cards. Oh, he’s gonna report me to the council such and whatever. Pft. I’ve been a corpse 50 years, pal, good luck.” She spoke _very_ quickly, never once pausing for anyone to comment or react, even when she asked a question. Dax wondered if that was how she got away with speaking her mind on Ferenginar: getting her point out faster than anyone could tell her to hush. She continued:  
“We can have these for celebrating on the way back. Those Klingons we’re grabbing probably miss their blood wine, right? Oh, speaking of, T’Lini, you know the Fireteam we’re teaming with?”  
“Worthless P’tak,” T’Lini replied and Worf’s eyes widened.  
“Excuse me?”  
“An all-Klingon Fireteam,” she explained. “They’ve been in the Gamma Quadrant on reconnaissance. We rendezvous with them on the other side of the wormhole. Now that we’re all here, we should—”  
“Oh kretch2” Grexi swore. “There was a guy out in the airlock. Big, fuck-off Cardassian,” she moved her hands in a vague ‘wide and tall’ shape. “Wanted to know if know if he could come in and say goodbye to Julie.”  
“Every Cardassian is a big fuck-off Cardassian to you, Grex.” Julian pointed out. It was true, Grexi was short and stocky even for a Ferengi. She stuck her tongue out at her. It was pierced through the middle, decorated with one of the same brownish pearls as in her headdress.  
“Go say goodbye to your boyfriend,” she sneered and Dax expected a sputter from Julian, for him to deny that he and Garak—because this had to be Garak—were involved in any way. Instead he stuck his tongue back out at her and marched toward the door, a small smile on his face. Small but excited. Like a kitten who’s seen his first ball of yarn.  
Oh, she was going to give him so much shit for that later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Champagne uses the same model as Hebridean Thoughtcrime  
> 2) Kretch is an (old) Ferengi swear that I made up that means “shit”


	32. The Meeting Hall

DS9’s largest conference hall was barely large enough to accommodate the science council, The Concordat, station Command, Kai Winn, First Minister Shakaar & their attendants. The Vanguard requested this meeting be set up set up in a way that was familiar to them, as they were guests and also strangely on trial. Captain Sisko had held back a laugh and agreed. Illiara had bristled and tried to argue.   
So, the room was divided into thirds with the Concordat in one section, the Vanguard in another and the science council and Bajoran officials in another. Each section had enough chairs and tables to accommodate all of their members and one table with three chairs set in front of the main “bleachers”. This table would serve as what Cayde-6 had called “the hot spot”, where those who were speaking would sit. Each group was invited to send “envoys” down to the hot spot to speak on their behalf during any part of the discussion and all other members of those groups were expected to be silent. People could “tag out” in they wanted to switch places with one of their other groupmates but no one in the stands could “tag in”. This was meant to decrease the chance of discussion devolving into a shouting match.  
There would also be a set of neutral moderators seated somewhere between the three sections whose job it was to keep the peace and inforce the rules. Each side could elect a moderator, the catch being that you couldn’t choose someone under your command or in your direct affiliation. The Concordat couldn’t choose Dr. Haduak for instance. Apparently Vanguard legal proceedings functioned in much the same way and this would all be good practice for the upcoming trial.  
When Captain Sisko approached Nog to serve as the science council’s moderator, the Cadet was dumbstruck.   
“Captain, you can’t be serious,” he sputtered.  
“I’m very serious. I’ve heard great things about your performance in mock trial at Star Fleet Academy. And you’ve demonstrated great incite about what really matters, not just in Star Fleet but in life. I think you’d make a great moderator, Nog. At least for this first meeting.”  
“And, and if I blow it, you’ll pick someone else?” his toothy, lopsided grin was just a bit hopeful.  
“If that’s what you feel is best,” Sisko nodded. Nog breathed out in relief, then puffed his chest out, fists on his hips.  
“I don’t think I’ll do very well,” he said. “But I promise to do my best.”  
Kai Winn had apparently campaigned long and hard to be chosen as a moderator. Her petition was struck down on the grounds that her faith and connection to the Prophets meant that she would likely “go easy” on the Secret Warriors. Someone—and they might have been joking—brought up Jake Sisko and he declined graciously, preferring to remain a spectator and member of the press. Gomra, the Ferengi scientist, almost made it but then someone pointed that he had recently began the process of filing patents for an array of “defensive technology” designed to ward off Substance 29 and its vessels. Haduak volunteered despite being a member of the Concordat, citing his dedication to logic. Odo insisted that he had grown too close to the issue to be truly impartial, but by that time much of the delegation had grown tired and only one moderator had been decided upon. So the Constable was offered like a lamb to tedious, loquacious slaughter.   
And then the room went suddenly cold.   
“Someone forget to pay a bill?” Gomra wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. Sisko’s hand reached up instinctively to hit his com badge and call Odo. Zavala reached out a hand in a calming motion.  
“I don’t think we have anything to be alarmed about,” he said. Cayde leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.  
“I think we have our last volunteer,” no sooner had he finished his sentence did the door to the conference room slam open—slammed despite being a pneumatic sliding door. And The Speaker stood there in the doorway, stiff and somehow tranquil than anyone in that room had seen them. A few people thought that perhaps this was a completely different Speaker than the one they had been dealing with, so off-balance and tense was their stance, only for Bastion to float out from behind their head address the assembly.  
“The Prophets, those who reside in the Celestial Temple, the Eye of Destiny, the Bajoran Wormhole, stand before you now, cloistered in the body of The Speaker, their most humble representative among their people.” He spoke like he’d been practicing over and over again. “They demand a hand in the proceedings which will decide the fate of the people of Bajor, whom they love and protect, as well as that of the Secret Warriors, the Guardians, the Vessels of Light. They who were created by their siblings, the Travelers, the Light Bringers, the Hands of Transformation. They do this with the authority of space and time and existence itself. They—” there was probably more to the speech but The Speaker stepped forward past Bastion with the gait of beings who are not used to walking with feet and legs and hips.   
“We welcome you, Exalted One,” Ikora said and bowed her heads.  
“Your welcome is of no concern, dead thing,” The Speaker’s voice was… it was there, to be sure, but it was also lost, buried under a litany of dozens and dozens of other voices, all speaking in near-perfect unison. Some started earlier, others ended late. Ikora’s jaw clenched. Cayde leaned farther back, balancing on the back legs of his chair.  
“I donno,” he sing-songed, pressing two gloves fingers to Ikora’s neck. She fixed him with a look that had definitely killed people before. Felled giants, froze lakes of fire. “Feels like she’s got a pulse to me.”  
“The Sisko will play his part in the Game. This has distracted him long enough. The Game must be played.”  
“Glad we agree!” Cayde said before Sisko could say anything. The Speaker took a seat.   
“Proceed,” they said.   
“Actually,” Sisko smiled like someone in on a joke. “We were about to adjourn for the day. We creatures of linear time need our rest.” He stood. He was distantly aware of Jake writing furiously on his padd, of Nog staring in something horror, of Kai Winn readying herself to fall on her face and worship. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”  
“Very well,” The Speaker nodded. They remained still. Bastion flew around their head, a beam of light springing from their single eye.   
“They’ll be fine,” he said to no one in particular. “Speakers get possessed all the time.” Perhaps he was talking to himself.  
The Speaker—The Prophets? They remained in their chair for the next fourteen hours, upright but slightly slumped, in a position that looked more and more uncomfortable the longer one observed it. Odo posted a Bajoran security detail in the room, just one officer on an ongoing rotation, just to be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi


	33. The Lovers

Julian was barely out of the Champagne before Garak seized him by the lapels. He pulled Julian into him and if Garak minded the way their teeth clacked together as they kissed or the way Julian froze momentarily in surprise, he didn’t show it. He just moaned against Julian’s mouth and pressed him to into one side of the airlock, his hands moving down to Julian’s sides. Meanwhile, the Warlock was wrapping his arms around Garak’s neck and pulling him closer. He tilted his head a bit and opened his mouth to invite Garak’s tongue to slide against his. Cardassian tongues were more pointed than human ones, and had a pronounced ridge in the middle. The sensation of the ridge moving along the roof of his mouth made Julian shiver.  
“You were gone when I woke up this morning,” Garak sighed when they finally needed to breath. Julian took a couple of deep breaths, relishing in the way cool air brushed against his kiss-swollen lips.  
“I left you a message,” he breathed, looking down and at Garak’s lips too. He’d found out the night before that he really needed to nip at them to get them red-grey and tender. He leaned forward to do just that and was stopped with a hand in the center of his chest. He looked down at it and then back at Garak’s face.  
“I’m frightened for you, s’h’iosr’halin1,” Elim Garak did not show fear. To show your fear was to show weakness, was to show your enemy that there’s something they can use to manipulate you. But who was the enemy here? What front were they fighting on? Did Garak need the upper hand here too? Julian wanted to smile at the idea that his friend—his lover?—was letting himself stop fighting, was revealing the cracks in his walls, was relinquishing just the tiniest bit of control.  
“Thank you,” he said in the quietest of tones. Garak quirked his head to one side, opened his mouth to speak. “For letting yourself be vulnerable with me,” he pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s hard for you.”  
“Oh no,” Garak shook his head just slightly. “It’s not difficult at all, my love.” Garak had taken to pet names much quicker than Julian.  
“Garak,” he sighed even though his face was heating at the endearment. “I know what you’re doing.”  
“What am I doing, dear doctor?” And that made Julian think he’d been using loving pet names all along.  
“I know you, Garak,” Julian leaned his forehead against Garak’s so that his entire field of vision narrowed to those deep, ocean-blue eyes. “Please, please remember that you’re safe with me,” he moved his hands down to Garak’s sides, wrapped his arms around his back and pressed their torsos together. “You don’t have to keep me at arm’s length. You’re one of my best friends, and now you’re…” he kissed him again, slow and languid. He kept his eyes open. Another thing he’d learned that night before was that Garak kissed with his eyes open. He’d insisted it was a Cardassian Thing but Julian maintained that it was more likely a Spy Thing or a Garak Thing. So he looked him in the eye and kissed him, rubbed little circles into his back and shoulder blades, sighed when their lips parted.  
“I,” Garak breathed. He pulled back and looked at Julian, his eyes searching, questing. “I will try,” he said finally and Julian smiled, big and bright and dreamy.  
“That’s all I ask,” he kissed Garak’s cheek. “And I promise not to take any risks on my mission.”  
“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak nodded and kissed him again and T’Lini had to come into the airlock and pull them apart.

*

Julian stood near the door with his hands on his hips, his face hot and reddened, hair mussed and lips kiss-swollen. He stared at the floor as Grexi collapsed onto it, holding her sides with laughter.  
“I cannot _believe_!” she was trying to say. “I absolutely _cannot_ under any circumstances!”  
“Grexi, please,” T’Lini sighed. “You’re setting a poor precedent for the professionalism of this team and its mission.”  
“Oh, and Jay making out in the airlock isn’t unprofessional!” Grexi guffawed, rolling onto her back.  
“It’s completely fair for Julian to need to say goodbye to his,” T’Lini looked at him. “His?” she quirked an eyebrow. Julian breathed in, glanced at Dax. She was looking at him with brows raised, a wry sort of smile on her face. Julian looked away from her and sighed. T’Lini hummed. “It’s completely fair for Julian to say goodbye to his boyfriend.” Julian gaped at her. She shrugged. “You gave me no alternative.”  
“Well,” Dax stood and put her hands on her hips, her mouth still upturned cheekily. “I’d like to be the first to congratulate you Julian.” She patted his back. Julian sighed again, dropped his hands and rolled his eyes. Dax laughed.  
“I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t understand what you see in the man,” Worf said thoughtfully. “But I am happy for you, my friend.”  
“Thank you Worf,”  
“We’re all happy for you,” Dax smiled wide.  
“Oh of course we’re happy for him,” Grexi was out of breath, sprawled out on the floor. “We just also love making fun of him. It’s what friends are for.” There was a noise toward the cockpit like a latch being flung open and new voice joined the conversation.  
“Who’re we making fun of?” When Dax and Worf turned to see who had joined them they were both struck with very different emotions. Dax was surprised to see a Jam’Hadar soldier standing on the stairs the lead to the cockpit. At the same time, her curiosity over who and where the _Champagne’s_ pilot ‘Otovo’ was had been satisfied. She looked at Worf and saw the disgust and suspicion he was trying to hide painted so plainly on his face he may as well have not bothered.  
“Julian,” Grexi sang from her place on the floor. “You know that tailor he’s always going on about?”  
“I do not always go on about—” Julian’s face scrunched in outrage.  
“Garak, yeah,” Otovo walked toward the kitchen. Their gate was affected strangely, like one of their shoulders was heavier than the other. They wore armored robes like Julian did, stark-white with off-yellow and pale pink accents, and an armband made of bone and bird talons. “What about him?”  
“He and I—” Julian began. “We,” he gestured vaguely. Grexi absolutely _howled_ , curling into herself on the floor and knocking her head into the kitchen island. She paused for only a moment lament the bump on her head. Otovo raised an eyeridge, then looked back at Julian for a proper answer. Julian only sighed and gestured again. Grexi started making kissy noises on the floor and Julian glared at her, tiny bolting of lightning arching up in his hair. Behind him, K’laka rolled her eye, either at Julian himself or Grexi’s continued mocking.  
“I see,” Otovo nodded and crossed over to Worf, sticking out a hand for him to shake. It wasn’t a common greeting but Worf returned it anyway and Otovo grabbed his forearm and squeezed. “Otovo’Kinama. I’ll be your pilot and transmat chief.” He repeated the gestured with Dax. “Good to finally meet you folks. Jay talks about you two almost as much as he talks about the tailor.” He looked at Julian again and smiled. Julian made a face. “Glad you two finally got your head outta your asses on that one, by the way.”  
“Yes, yes, me too,” Julian crossed his arms. “Now that we’re all acquainted, we have a rendezvous to make.”  
“Exactly,” T’Lini nodded. Six minutes later, they were undocking from the station. Grexi was still making kissy noises at Julian. Ten minutes after that, they were on the other side of the worm hole. Julian was thinking about how much he already missed Garak. Twenty two minutes after that they had snuck past most of The Dominion’s front guard. Dax was telling Grexi the story of how she and Worf had gotten together. Worf was grimacing in an attempt to not smile fondly. T’Lini was cleaning her sniper rifle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) “My dear doctor” in Cardassian.


	34. The Trial

Praafo Ava, Travu Jacag, and Zeenya Roye were three Bajoran security officers accused of theft by the leader of the Concordat, Illiara Veni of Trill. They confessed their crime to Constable Odo and were subsequently placed under house arrest in their quarters aboard Deep Space 9. Their case was the simplest of all the matter the assembly was gathered to discuss. It was also the one that The Prophets, now acting through The Speaker, cared the most about. Or, as they put it:  
“You have stolen three of my people, dead things, made them into you. Forced them to exist where they should not. This will not stand.”  
“That really isn’t what we’re here to discuss,” Ikora was sitting stiffly at the rep’s table, as if part of the armor in her robes was also keeping her back completely straight and her shoulders squared. Gebes was floating in the empty space between the table and Vanguard’s bleachers. He understood that the rules dictated only those who were currently representing the Vanguard’s interests in the debate could be at the table. He also understood that Ikora was very tense and he needed everyone else to understand that it his job to make sure she was okay.   
“It is,” The Speaker insisted. “You took these beings and now they are in danger.”  
“You don’t sound very impartial,” Odo remarked, just loud enough for those around him to hear. Nog was busy organizing his notes but still looked up to voice his agreement. The Speaker turned to Nog and was suddenly somehow towering over him.  
“Your existences are tied to every other existence,” they said in legion. Nog shrunk back, his chair loudly announcing his retreat as it scraped across the tiled floor. Ikora resisted sighing.  
“They mean that true impartiality does not exist,” she said. “But at any rate, we are here to discuss the fate of these three Guar—” she turned to them. “Do you prefer Secret Warriors or Guardians?” They were all sitting in a row in their rest regalia, individually attempting to scale the mountain that was ‘Wow we are sitting in the same room as the gods’. Praafo turned to Ikora and stood. He was… well, he was a Titan, all broad shoulders and thick muscles, not particularly tones but unmistakably built. His hair was in an undercut, unfashionable on Bajor for quite some time, and his earring included a tiny medallion emblazed with the Titan emblem. Maybe it would have meant nothing when he wore in around the station a few weeks ago, but here caught the light of the station lights, glinting into Haduak’s eye as he sat with the rest of the Concordat.  
“We are Secret Warriors, Vanguard,” he said simply. Ikora nodded.  
“We are here to discuss the fate of these three Secret Warriors. They were currently accused of theft. The Vanguard moves to elevate the charge to aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner. Do the accused abide?”  
“We do, Vanguard,” Praafo nodded and sat back down.   
Nog stood, chest puffed out, Cadet’s uniform impeccably pressed. In the back of the room, Rom was half pride, half nerves.   
“There are Ghosts present here,” Nog said. “I’d like to ask for a volunteer among them.” Immediately, Gebes in his silver and midnight blue Kill Tracker Shell (an old hold-out from Ikora’s Crucible days and the shell Gebes liked best) floated out toward the middle of the room. He ended up in a space that was more toward Ikora than the very center, but it would suffice.   
“I am Gebes, the Ghost partnered to Vanguard Ikora Rey. Hello.”  
“Thank you,” Nog nodded. “I have a series of questions for you, and the end I hope we will all have a better sense of what you and your fellow Ghosts are.”  
“Very well,” his panels adjusted, a ripple flowing through his small frame as if rocked by a gentle wave.  
“Gebes, how long have you been assigned to Ikora Rey?”  
“Vanguard Ikora Rey,” Gebes corrected with an unimpressed blink. “I rose my Guardian six hundred and nine years ago.”  
“Is that a long time for a Ghost to be attached to a Guardian?”  
“You appear to think that we cycle through partners. The bond between Ghost and Guardian is meant to last for the totality of their existences. Exceptions to that rule are devastating for us all. At any rate, yes, it is a long time. It is a long time for anything.”  
“Thank you for that clarification. Have you enjoyed your time with the Vanguard?”  
“I have.”  
“Has it been fun?”  
“It has been enjoyable. She is good company and I have seen many things with her that I would not have seen otherwise.”  
“Can you give me an example?” Nog was starting to relax into his role. Sisko turned his head down to smirk to himself, happy with his selection of moderator. Gebes took a moment to think.   
“There is a moon which orbits the ocean planet Wreath. It’s far from here. Far from most things. But the moon is made entirely of salt. You can go there and scale mountains of glistening salt crystals and people try to lick the salt but it’s unrefined so they cut their tongues. There is a lake at the bottom of a gully between two salt mountain that is fresh water. We spent ten years there while Ikora was writing her thesis on electrical impulses made by the brain.”  
“Ten years is a long time to write a thesis,” Nog remarked. Gebes looked unimpressed again.  
“It’s a long thesis.”  
“Is it normal for Guardians to shirk their duties for so long to sit around and write about… what was it again?”  
“Electrical impulses in the organic brain. The thing in your head that makes your mouth run.” There was a stifled chuckle in the Vanguard section. Cayde-6, who had been playing some kind of game with a deck of playing cards, pressed a fan of cards to his mouth, partly in an attempt to keep himself quiet and partly to look coy.   
“Doesn’t sound like something a soldier should be bothering with. Surely there was a war to fight.”  
“There is always a war to fight,” Those were the words he said, sure, but what most people in the room heard was ‘Shut the fuck up’. “A Warlock’s duty is to ponder the great questions of life, the universe, and everything. And Ikora is a very good Warlock.”  
“Vanguard Ikora Rey,” Nog said without looking up from his padd and Gebes floated slowly toward him, inching forward at a rate so incremental that few had noticed he was moving at all until he was right in front of Nog; close enough that the blue-white light from his single eye splashed across the ridges of the Ferengi’s nose. Nog looked up laconically.  
“Yes?” he said, tilting his head in inquiry.   
“I will not stand here and have the reputation of one of the great Guardians to ever serve this quadrant be diminished.” He said it simply, plainly, as if stating a simple fact.  
“I could point out,” Nog reached forward and waved his arm in the air below Gebes. “That you’re not standing at all.” Gebes’ eye widened in alarm and outrage.   
“Gebes,” Ikora’s voice was warning and soothing and worried. Gebes whirled around and looked at her, then floated back to the center of the room, the proper center this time. “Your point, Moderator?” Ikora’s steely gaze flicked to Nog and he cleared his throat.  
“I propose to the assembly that a being who is able to display nostalgia, fondness, protectiveness, and fury the way that Gebes has just done cannot be an object, but rather a person.” He’s said the list confidently but anyone who’d been paying attention could tell that he was definitely assigning those observed traits to Gebes’ behavior as he went. “Therefore, the charge against the accused cannot be theft, but rather aiding and abetting an escape.” He said back and tried not to tremble. He caught Sisko’s eye and his Captain smiled and pointed a thumb in the air. The first few times Jake had done that around Nog, he’d assumed it was a rude gesture of some sort. Now he saw it and pride and accomplishment spread through his chest.   
It was decided then, that if Gebes was a person rather than a device, all Ghosts were people rather than devices. Thus, the one being kept by the Concordat was _freed_ rather than being _stolen_. And since it was being held captive rather than being legally owned by the Concordat, the accused Guardians had done nothing illegal. In fact, they had merely been fulfilling their duty as Guardians to help the innocent.   
However, Praafo, Travu, and Zeenya had tampered with systems aboard Deep Space 9. Their commissions as Security Officers were stripped and they were each sentenced to six months in jail on Bajor. The three of them hugged and celebrated and Cayde-6 saluted. There were many murmurs about how strange it was to see anyone celebrate being incarcerated. Odo stood.  
“Now that it has been established that the freed Ghost was being held captive, would the Vanguard like to charge the Concordat with kidnapping?” He didn’t say ‘In which case, we all get the privilege of doing this all over again’. The Vanguard looked at each other, leaned in and whispered. Cayde-6 nodded enthusiastically. Zavala sighed and shook his head. Ikora raised a stern eyebrow. She stood.  
“We will be refraining from pressing charges at this time,” she said plainly. Cayde-6 made a big show of throwing himself back in his chair in defeat.   
“Very well,” Odo nodded. “Then we will adjourn for the day and gather again tomorrow to discuss the Guardian Vanguard’s presence in the Alpha Quadrant.” The words were heavy in his mouth, the responsibility to remain neutral wrapped around his shoulders and dragging them down. He strained not to meet Kira’s gaze in the back of the room.


	35. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anybody here remember songfics?

The journey to the rendezvous point took six days. By day three, Worf was no longer following Otovo around with his eyes whenever they were in the same room. By day four, he and Grexi had made it a habit of working on their crochet projects together in the main room before meals—Commander Zavala had suggest Worf start with something simple like a pot holder, but he was insisting on making Dax a scarf. Nevermind how wide it was in some places and thin it was in others. She already loved it.   
By day five, Dax had awoken in the night three times to see one or another member of Mercy Delta moving soundlessly through the main room of the ship—the third time it was Julian. He met her eyes in the dark, tilted his head as if to ask if she was alright. She’d nodded mutely and snuggled closer to Worf. That morning, she asked him what that was all about:  
“Guardians don’t sleep much,” he said simply. “Side effect of our rebirth—I do I hope I scare you.”  
“Only a little,” she chuckled. Grexi set a plate of beetle pancakes in front of her with a smile.   
“We should probably think about where the refugee are going to be sleeping on the way back,” she said. “Worthless’ jumpship is an old Space-Age Lancelot they call Kotar’s Challice,”  
“Klingon Guardians are always so dramatic,” her Ghost commented.   
“So they’ve got three extra beds, plus I have a hammock,” Grexi started counting things off on her fingers. One by one, each member of Mercy Delta offered up their bed to their future guests. Otovo and Julian could both sleep in the cockpit, T’Lini on the floor of the main room, and Grexi in her hammock. Dax looked around, somewhere between puzzled and touched.   
“I could take a spot on the floor,” she said. “They’ll probably need a warm place to sleep more than I would.” She smiled gently and was met with a cacophony of “no’s”.  
“You need to sleep,” Julian said. “We don’t really. Not all the time. What if we stole a Jem’Hadar ship?” He half-turned to Otovo, who looked serious for a moment. Dax had never imagined Dr. Julian Bashir suggesting grant theft spaceship as a solution to a bed space problem. She smirked. Getting to know this new Julian was going to be more fun than she thought.  
“Might take more time,” Otovo said finally. “This is supposed to be a smash-and-grab. And I wouldn’t want to put any of the fugee’s on a Jem’Hadar ship. They’re more utility than comfort.”  
“We could take the stolen one and let Dax and Worf drive the fugees home,” Grexi smiled, toothy and mischievous. “You just press the stick forward to speed it up.” T’Lini cleared her throat.  
“Standard Space-Age Lancelots come with two escape pods. There should be beds in those. And I don’t like the idea of us arriving back at DS9 with a stolen enemy vessel.”  
“Shh,” Grexi whipped her head around. “The Dominion aren’t officaly our enemies yet. We haven’t don’t the ceremony.”  
“Ceremony?” Dax asked at the same time that Worf put his fork down and demanded to know why an all-Klingon Fireteam needed not one but two escape pods. Dax tried not to sigh. Julian looked at her, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.   
Because they can’t die, Worf.” Julian said, a playful lilt in his voice that only served to fuel the anger brewing behind Worf’s eyes. “I know that’s disturbing for you, but they don’t. Die. They’re never getting to the Klingon afterlife anyway, so they don’t have to worry about dying with honor.” Julian was smiling and his demeanor was nothing short of playful. However, there was a hard edge to his gaze. Worf huffed grumpily.  
“I’d like to see these so-called Klingons for myself,” he said and sunk his fork back into the mountain of sausages he’d been offered for breakfast.   
“I don’t understand why not caring about the glory of their deaths makes them less Klingon,” Otovo said casually. Worf’s eyes and nostrils both flared and Julian and Dax both had to keep themselves from laughing.   
“It’s a culture thing,” T’Lini said and sipped her mint tea. “There are many people who wouldn’t consider me Vulcan.”  
“Because of the Awoken thing?” Grexi asked. “I don’t think that’s a very good example.” T’Lini raised both her eyebrows and she straightened herself up a bit more, reminding everyone in the ship of Vulcans’ feline ancestry. Her teammates all burst into uproarious laughter. She took another sip of her tea.   
“That is not what I meant. There are things Vulcan-Vulcans do that I don’t and so some people think I am not Vulcan.”  
“I haven’t been Ferengi in years,” Grexi said. Otovo shook his head. “You think you’re still Jem’Hadar? You don’t even mindlessly murder anyone in the name of imperialism anymore.” There was a ripple of laughter from the Guardians and Dax was confused for a moment. Then Julian smiled, standing with his plate.  
“No, he only mindfully murders in the name of peace and defense and Light and blah, blah,” he gestured dismissively. Otovo turned to watch him as he moved through the small kitchen.   
“If I’m not Jem’Hadar, then what am I?”  
“A guardian,” Julian mused.   
“Sappy.” Grexi wriggled her nose. “I think you’re plenty Vulcan, T’Lini. You’ve got the posture and the expression,” she waved a hand in front of her face. “Or lack thereof. Fireteam Worthless is a bunch of Klingons because that’s who they still choose to be. Simple.”  
“You cannot simply choose to be Klingon,” Worf said. “It is something that must be earned. And reinforced.”   
“Could I be a Klingon?” Grexi asked, flipping the curtain of beads of her headdress the way one would long hair. “You said it yourself, I’m a warrior. I’ve got lots of honor. I don’t have a house though. My father in an ass and my mother thought I was a disappointment.” She tapped a finger against her lower lip. “I have a Titan Order and a Fireteam. Do those count?” Again she was speaking too quickly for anyone to react to her. And suddenly she stood and climbed up onto her stool; there were four little silver and off-white ones along the counter. “Grexi, Sentinel Titan of House Delta Mercy, twice honored by the Pilgrim Guard.” She threw back her head and let out her best approximation of a Klingon war cry—it was shrill and didn’t have the reverb typically associated with such cry, but her squadmates clapped anyway.  
Worf snarled and shook his head.   
“A true Klingon would not boast their accomplishments, but rather lets their honor and their name speak for themselves.” He nodded with the kind of certainty they write about in epic poetry. And with the same kind of drama and flair, Grexi turned herself on one foot on top of her stool, her flowing robes whirling around her like a summer storm.   
“I would make an excellent Klingon, Worf! And I’ll prove it when we get to the prison!” she stepped up onto the counter and struck a pose. “We’re supposed to kill all of the Dominion soldier stationed there. I bet I could kill the most.” She plunge a fist into the air above her head and it bloomed with purple light. Worf stood in surprise, his chair clanging to the ground. Dax’s gaze shifted from Grexi to Worf and back again. Grexi’s hand was... Dax had never seen something so cold and yet so… captivating? Perhaps not in person anyway. She’d seen projections of black holes and neutron stars. The grenade the Concordat had “demonstrated” during their conference was like this. A micro-singularity, localized to a glass dome… Dax found herself transfixed.   
“Will that make you a Klingon?” Otovo asked, amused. Grexi lowered her hand, splaying her fingers out to the purple light ran down from her palm and alighting each of her fingertips.   
“Probably not. But it would make me worthy of song and glory, wouldn’t it?” she looked at Worf. “Klingons sing before they go into battle, don’t they? Let’s sing a song!” She threw her hands up in the air and the purple light dispersed. Dax blinked, rocketed back into the reality of the room in time to see Grexi stomping out a rhythm on top of the counter.   
It took a few moments, but Dax soon saw each member of Delta Mercy perking up, recognition in their eyes. They sung slow and mournfully, like a funeral march, clapping or stomping at the end of each line to mimic the sound of marching and hoof beats.  
 _What the land did send_  
 _What the land did send_  
 _When the old world passed_  
Julian hoisted a cup of fruit juice like one would a chalice of wine, threw an arm around Dax’s shoulders, and the two of them swayed back and forth to the song.   
_O ye sons of men_  
 _Now a city shines_  
 _On the grave, amen_  
 _What the land did send_  
 _What the land did send_  
“This song,” Julian explained between vibrato peals. “Is about an angel raining vengeance down on a group of oppressors. It’s a pyre march.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're actually in the home stretch here, almost three years after I first started writing this. Thank you so much for sticking with me for this long. I really appreciate every view and kudos and comment so much. They sate my lust for human interaction.


	36. The Prisoner

There is. A warmth. When a bruise forms. When the capillaries just beneath the skin are damaged and broken. The warmth—and the pain—blooms across the skin. It paints purple and black blossoms along the jaw, around the eye, just below the ribs.   
The Jem’Hadar are full of rage. Unchecked. Without direction. Violence for the sake of violence. Not for honor. Not to prove one’s worth. Not to defend or to claim.   
They drag you from your cell every day. They jeer and taunt. They demand you prove your worth. Earn your place among the living.   
Your honor demands that you best them.   
You have something they will ever have. A family, a name, a house. You will not blemish what your ancestors fought and clawed and starved to build.   
You will not die here, a prisoner, while your empire no doubt crumbles on the other side of the galaxy. You will not slip away with a pained whimper when you were destined to lead your people to a new golden age. One of peace and prosperity.  
You were destined to build a better place for your children. And your children’s children. The children of your allies.  
Allies.   
What is the Dominion doing to them? They are wearing your face. Corrupting your image. Killing your legacy. Dragging your people—and those they care about—down with you.  
No. Stop.  
You will not let them into your mind. They want you to know that they have the upper hand, that they are using your face as a weapon against you. if you dwell on it, it will consume you. The guilt. The anxiety. If it consumes you, they will win. You will not let them win.   
You cannot let them win.  
Time moves slowly here. The days are punctuated by meals. By beatings. By bouts in the arena. But who’s to say how many times a day those things happen? How many rotations has it been? You sleep. You are knocked unconscious. Your wounds are treated by one of your cellmates. She knows battlefield medicine. The Jem’Hadar have no medics. If a tool is damaged, it is discarded.  
A young girl falls in the recreation area. She was tripped. The guards laughed. She stops moving. She does not get up.   
Anger bubbles up in the pit of your stomach. You are too fatigued to charge the guard. Would only die in the fight that would follow. Perhaps a riot. Perhaps your name chanted as shackles are broken, chains thrown off. Perhaps your face in the mind’s eye of the captured as claw and tear at their captors.   
They would only die, the last memory of you. The Real You. Snuffed out along with them. The Real Them. You are the only warrior here. Truly. There are scientists and politicians. Those who hold power, who sway delegations and move continents. Many of them have gone mad. They know what the changelings who wear their faces are doing to their homes. To their governments. Their armies. They know. And they do not know. And that drives them to claw at the walls of their cells. To wail and cry out until their voices are silenced. The guards are so easily irritated.   
Time moves slowly here. It is a holiday in your other cellmate’s culture. Or perhaps it has passed. He sings a song. Teaches you some of the words. The language is curling and light. Too delicate to fit on your tongue. It crunches between your teeth. Your cellmate laughs. He thanks you for trying. You hum the tune that night when he is sobbing in the bunk beneath you. The guards had come in to stop the music. One of his ribs is cracked. They do not treat him. Jem’Hadar have no medics. Your cellmate knows battlefield medicine. There is only so much that can be done.   
He slips away in the night.   
The food is awful. Flavorless and tough. Jem’Hadar do not eat. You think of stealing their drugs. The ones they are born addicted to. You wonder who would curse a child to such a fate. Who could. You hate the Dominion. You pity the Jem’Hadar.  
You told yourself once that you would never pity anyone. It is disrespectful. There is no honor in pity.   
But the Jam’Hadar are pathetic.   
They lash out like children. Untrained and unhoned. They are the weapon of the Dominion. And yet they are like an unsharpened mek’leth. Useful only for bludgeoning. Unskilled dismemberment.   
And so you pity them.  
The one you are fighting ducks low and charges. You hear your rib snap. Feel the way it punctures something deep inside you. A lung. Your breath is wheezing. Whistling. Worrisome. And then not there at all. Some kind of alarm is sounding. In your delirious haze you think an ambulance must have been called.  
Your eyes flutter shut. You think Sto’Vo’Kor will welcome you. You died in battle. In defense of your honor. You slump down to the floor. You see the Jem’Hadar’s face. It eclipses the prison’s lights. Blinding. Brilliant. Smug. You see the Jem’Hadar’s face and you see the way their lips curl. The fangs the smile reveals. You know you will be cursed to the Barge of the Dead. You know your honor was ripped from you. That you shed it in fits and starts. You wish you could see your wife again. Your children. One last time. It is a selfish wish. But you are dying. Perhaps you deserve to be selfish.  
There is. A warmth. It begins in your chest and spreads outward. Down to your fingertips and toes. It pools there. There is a spark. A hand. It grips your very soul. A light like the sun. A fire. A voice. Yelling. Screaming. An explosion? A weapon in your hand. A great hammer. It is set aflame and you think Sto’Vo’Kor must have embraced you. You see the other Klingons rushing to you. They ask if you are alight and you laugh. You throw another hammer. Even as the great fire in your veins dissipated you feel you are strengthened anew. Here in Sto’Vo’Kor, a battle rages unending and you lead the charge.   
There are tears in your eyes. The enemy falls at your feet, scorched to ash. You laugh again. A great bellow. Your feet are on the ground. The fire is in your palms. Your chest. Your soul. There are more warriors at your side now. Their weapons rip Jem’Hadar to ribbons. You are here. And your enemies are right to be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :0


	37. The Puzzle

O’Brien sat at his usual table in Quark’s nursing an Irish coffee for the better part of an hour. At the bar, the group of Guardians who’d accompanied the Vanguard to station were laughing at something loudly. They insisted on wearing their armor everywhere, as if they were always braced for a fight to break out. No, not a fight. Security personnel were braced enough for a fight without kilos of metal and blast-proof fabrics. They were ready for a battle, ready at any moment to throw themselves on a bomb or in front of phaser fire. It must have been exhausting. It was tiring him out looking at them. All that gear had to be heavy too. 

“Curious, isn’t it?” The voice pulled O’Brien from his thoughts and he looked over at the other chair to see Garak smiling at him wryly. He lifted a cup of tea to his lips silently.

“What’d you want?” O’Brien asked, a little harsher than he intended. 

“It seems to me, Chief O’Brien, that we are both in want of good company,” Garak answered, his gaze scanning O’Brien like he was looking for a sign of weakness. O’Brien glared back at him, looking him up and down in a way he hoped was a little intimidating. It was true that he and Garak had a very good friend in common, but the two of them had scarcely shared a conversation in all their time on the station together.

At the bar, one of the Guardians… a Hunter? A Hunter raised a shot glass to the ceiling and said something in a strange language. She down the shot and the others cheered for her. A few other bar patrons looked over to see what the fuss was about. They were just in time to see the Hunter fall flat on her back, her Ghost rising out of nowhere. O’Brien recognized the pattern the little machine’s plates moved in; he’d seen the same on the holosuite. The Hunter was dead. A moment later she was climbing back onto her barstool and demanding another shot from a startled Quark. The bartender looked at the bottle in his hands once, twice, then set it on the bar for the group of them to have. 

“Curious,” Garak repeated. O’Brien looked at him incredulously. “Apparently Quark bought a whole shipment of that liquor. Something only Guardians can have.”

“Because it kills them,” O’Brien shook his head. He was somewhere past scared of these people. Beyond disgusted and confused, too. Maybe he was annoyed. “They treat it like a game, giving up their own lives. It’s casual for them.”

“To drop dead in the middle of a bar in exchange for a good drink,” Garak said. “Julian told me a lot of Guardians are unspeakably old. Perhaps they get bored with normal alcohol.”

“Oh he’s Julian now?” O’Brien quirked an eyebrow, took a slow sip of his drink. Garak tilted his head to one side.

“Surely you’ve heard,” he said. “If it weren’t for our ambiguously mortal guests it’d be the talk of the station.” Oh, O’Brien had heard. Garak had stayed with Julian the whole night after his… freak out in the holosuite. Freak out. Breakdown more like. One that O’Brien had caused. And he hadn’t been able to talk to Julian afterward; Mercy Delta had left the next morning for their meeting in the Gamma Quadrant. Again, Garak’s voice pulled O’Brien from his thought before he could get too self-pitying. 

“I suppose I should be thanking you,” he said, as if he’d ever stoop so low as to give O’Brien credit for anything.

“You’re welcome,” O’Brien snapped. Distantly, there was a thud as two of the Guardians fell to the floor at the same time. Quark paused in serving another table. O’Brien and Garak watched with rapt attention as he slammed the table’s drinks down before marching back to the bar.

“I never thought I’d say this,” he didn’t get too close to the bodies on the floor, even as they stirred. “But the six of you might not be worth the latinum. Out of my bar! You’re scaring other patrons! You’re scaring me!” He ushered them away. One of them, a Warlock, left a stack of latinum on the bar. He apologized and bowed a few times. If you looked close enough, you could tell that he was trying not to laugh. Quark waved insistently at him and he jogged to catch up with his comrades at the entrance. 

“Did you hear about the trial?” Garak asked. “Quite the turn of events, don’t you think? Ghosts are people.” O’Brien hummed. “Now all he have to do is figure out if their partners are deserving of the same treatment.”

“What’d you mean?” Apparently the whiskey had gotten to him just enough to humor Elim Garak. 

“All they want is to exist and fulfill their purpose. And we’re going to snatch that away from them because they’re a little frightening.” 

“You’re scared of them?” O’Brien leaned forward in his chair. Garak? Scared? He’d never admit it. 

“Julian tells me all the time about how smart you are, Chief O’Brien,” Oh, the impulse to roll his eyes. “Surely you know that just because something is frightening, that doesn’t mean you have to be afraid of it. We’re sitting right now in the void of space, held a loft only by an antimatter drive and the gravitational pull of a tiny planet in the middle of nowhere. But I am not scared to be on this frightening space station. It’s my home. And Julian is my friend.”

“Friend,” O’Brien snorted. Garak shrugged one shoulder. “Being on Deep Space 9 is scary. Or _frightening_. I know every system, bulkhead, and rivet on this station. Why would I be afraid of it?”

“So… you’re not afraid because you know how it works?”

“Right. And I don’t know how they work.” O’Brien set his cup down. He put his hands on the table, intending to head back to his quarters, kiss his wife, see his children, be in a place that made sense.

“Did you feel, Chief O’Brien?” Garak asked insistently. O’Brien settled back into his chair, brow furrowed.

“Feel what?”

“The… presence. In the holosuite. When we were playing the game.” Garak’s face was stone still, completely unreadable. It was frustrating, really, especially since O’Brien could tell his confusion and curiosity were written very plainly across his own visage. 

“Presence? What’re you talking about?” He spoke in hushed tones, like they were discussing something dangerous. 

“You were angry with Julian, weren’t you? I’d never seen you so irritable.”

“Because we’re such great friends, you and me.” 

“Of course,” Garak nodded as if that was obvious. This time O’Brien did roll his eyes. “And yet you fought to help carry him out of there, you were so concerned. The tension between the two of you snapped,” he snapped his fingers. It was such a different sound coming from a hand with scales. “And then it was gone. Julian didn’t mention it the entire night.”

“I’m glad to hear you two weren’t talking about me.” O’Brien picked his glass up again, downed the dregs in one swallow.

“I tried to ask him if was alright. He brushed it off, like the connection between the two of you had been repaired. And you didn’t do it, did you?”

“Do what?” O’Brien shook his head.

“Repair it. You weren’t even trying.” That was true. Julian was trying to reach out, use their shared hobby to invite O’Brien into his world, introduce him to his friends. O’Brien was there, but he wasn’t having any of it, really. He’d been hoping to be proven right the whole time; right about Guardians being strange and morbid and wrong. And he was right, wasn’t he? They were recreating the transmogrification of one of Julian’s teammates, a person he knew and was close to. And they were doing it by simulating death over and over. 

When Julian and O’Brien went into the holosuites, they were doing it for fun; they were playing the heroes, coming out on top. They weren’t gawking at the deaths or struggles of the characters they interacted with or portrayed. Apparently it was different for Guardians. It was different for Julian.   
“But,” Garak raised a finger. “You were concerned when he got upset.”

“So? He’s my friend.”

“Why?”

“What’d you mean why?” O’Brien raised his voice. Garak only stared at him, brow ridge raised, the question hanging in the air. Why? Why was Julian his friend. 

No.

Why was Julian _still_ his friend? Why had he chased after the group when they’d left the suite? Why had he worked to shield Julian from gawking onlookers while he cried? Why had he tried to check in on him throughout the night? Why had he sat in Quarks for an hour, drinking on a weeknight, feeling guilty about not having the chance to ask if he was alright? 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Chief O’Brien. The same way I don’t know why I was suddenly seized with the impulse to act on my feelings for the doctor. And I don’t know why those Guardians have scarcely been seen apart since arriving on the station, or how the Vanguard can sometimes predict what each other are going to say.” 

“Have you been spying on them?” O’Brien chuckled like Garak of all people was capable of being playfully mischievous. Of bring harmless. 

“Just observing,” Garak sipped his tea. “It’s curious. _I’m_ curious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi


	38. The Numbers

The facility held 132 prisoners. There were 78 Jem’Hadar guards. Delta Mercy was 4 Guardians and two liaisons. Worthless P’tak was 7 Klingon Guardians. There were three untethered Ghosts with them, drifters searching for their Guardians. By the end of the battle, there was one less. 

“Worf!” General Martok clapped his old friend on the back. 

“General.” Worf was out of breath from trading blows with one of the last Jem’Hadar. His uniform shirt was torn open at the shoulder and his bat’leth was bloodied. 

“I must say, I’m surprised to see you,” Martok explained. “Not this soon.”

“We came as soon as we could,” Work stood at attention. “Are you alright?”

“Alright?” Martok laughed. “Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m alright? I’ve arrived in the final place of honor, haven’t I?”

“General?” Worf thought for a moment. “You think that this is Sto’Vo’Kor?” But that didn’t make any sense. Unless. Movement behind Martok caught Worf’s eye and he felt his heart sink. The Ghost was wearing a muted brown and red shell, splashed with Jem’Hadar blood and sporting a phaser burn on one side. And it was floating near Martok’s head the same way K’laka did near Julian. He took a halfstep back.

“Think?” Martok sounded insulted. “I don’t think that I am on the sacred battlefield, Worf. I know it.” He made a sweeping gesture around the room—which had apparently served as the inmates’ cafeteria and recreation area—and then he blinked. The Ghost floated into his field of vision.

“You’re not dead,” it said in a soft, feminine voice. “You were dead, for about three seconds, but you’re not anymore. Do you remember? I reached out to you as you fell.”

“What?” Martok blustered. “Who—what are you?”

“My name is Dev,” it said and floated nearer to the general On reflex, Worf reached out to swat the thing way. it leaned forward and touched Martok’s forward. Martok gasped and stumbled backward. Worf, his hand stretched out toward Dev, was in a bad position to catch him and he fell.

“General!” Worf kneeled near Martok. The older man blinked, tears welling in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn’t breathe. “General?” Worf put a hand on his chest and Martok gripped it tightly. Dev floated between them.

“It’s alright,” her voice was light and airy and smooth, like some kind of whipped dessert. “Some Guardians don’t remember right away that they died. Especially the recent ones. He just needs a moment.”

“You cheated him of his death,” Worf growled. “This man is a true Klingon and he would have been welcomed to Sto’Vo’Kor with the call of a thousand warriors and you have robbed of that! Robbed him of his honor!”

“Honor over-arching, honor metaphysical, honors, plural,” Dev said, voice cantering as if reciting poetry. Worf bristled, nostrils flaring. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the Ghost out of the air. She put up no resistance.

“This man is one of the greatest Klingons to ever live!” he snarled.

“And he will make an amazing Guardian,” she said calmly. Something hit Worf’s shoulder and he whirled around, wrenching his hand from Martok’s grasp. He stood, still gripping Dev’s shell, poised to strike at his attacker. One of the Klingon Guardians, Atsa, was standing about ten feet away from him. She was hopping on one foot, trying to take off her boot. She was a tall, broad woman who wore gold coins in her hair—a style that had not been popular in the Empire for at least a hundred years. She wrenched her boot off and Worf realized that it was the only one she’d been wearing. His face scrunched in confusion. 

“Put her down!” she demanded and threw her boot at him. It thudded against his chest.

“I’m fine, Guardian,” Dev all but sighed. Worf looked around and saw Atsa’s other boot lying near the first. That was what had hit him before. She started yanking off one of her gloves. 

“Worf,” Martok was struggling to stand. Worf turned to him and resisted the urge to help him up. He would not insult such a great man by offering to aid him in such a simple task. “Worf, release my Ghost,” Martok rolled onto his side and got to his feet. His body felt heavier, slower, his senses duller. 

“General,” Worf’s voice almost shook. His fingers uncurled without his consent. He felt Dev fall from his hand and then saw her fly up toward Martok again.

“I’m glad you remember now,” she said calmly. “You surged into battle quite soon after your raising and your system is still getting used to the Light. Try to take deep breaths.” Martok was nodding along as she spoke. Atsa’s glove hit Worf in the back of the head. He whirled around again, nostrils flaring. 

“Would you stop that!?” He roared. She strode toward him calmly, stopping inches from his face. She stood over half a head taller than him, her frame covered in heavy, spiked plating meant to discourage enemies from grappling her. There was blood splattered against her knee guards… a piece of skin hanging from her shoulder plate. Worf’s nostril’s flared, the scent of rotting flesh filling his nose. There was a point in his life where that smell would have been exhilarating. Now he could feel the bile rising in his throat. 

“[To attack a Guardian’s Ghost is to attack their most vulnerable part],” she snarled in Klingon, her voice coming out half-garbled from behind her spiked teeth. This close, Worf could see that she actually had multiple rows of teeth, a recessive gene that had stopped presenting in most Klingons generations ago. “[Is that what Klingons have become? Too weak to face an opponent with two feet to stand on?]”

“[And a true Klingon throws her boots had the enemy?]” He puffed his chest out.

“[I was trying to give you a fighting chance].” Impossibly, she stepped even closer to him. A deep breath could draw their noses close enough to touch. Dev floated up beside their heads.

“[Are you two quite finished]?” It was strange to hear such perfect Klingon in such a tinny, computerized voice. Worf nearly jumped back at the sound. “[In case you are not aware, the Vanguard are expecting a Pyre when we arrive back on Deep Space 9. We need to collect the offerings.]”

“I don’t understand,” Martok said earnestly, though his stance told Worf he was certainly ready to do whatever… collecting was required of him. Dev first explained who the Vanguard were, and a bit about why they were here to rescue him and the other prisoners.

“The Dominion have officially been declared enemies of the Light. The Pyre is a ceremony we perform to show that. It’s an old tradition, something the Iron Lords started. You’ll learn all about them later…” she glanced around. A few other members of Worthless P’tak were shuffling into the roof. Worf spotted Dax among them, jostling about and speaking jovially in Klingon. “But for now, we need three things for the Pyre: the weapons our enemies raise against us, the armor they think will shield them, and the blood of their names.” She floated toward Martok and sort of… gestured for him to follow her. It was strange the way a Ghost mimicked the movements of real people, waving with their whole bodies. Worf felt a hand on his shoulder.

“He will be fine,” she said quietly, then stalked off to retrieve her boot. 

* 

First, the liberated prisoners were all loaded into _Kotar’s Challice_. It was much more spacious then the _Champagne_ and Worthless had brought more food than Delta had. Martok insisted he help with the Pyre. Julian removed his helmet. It released from the neck of his armor with a pneumatic hiss and then disappeared, whisked away to his footlocker. His hair was mussed and sticky with sweat and his pupils were still blown from adrenaline. He had no blood on his armor the way Atsa had, but not because it had slid off somehow. No, T’Lini’s armor bore the telltale signs of such a thing—metal and leather treated to reject stains. Julian was clean, perhaps, because no one had gotten close enough to him to bleed. 

“What else would you be doing, Guardian?” he asked incredulously. Worf bristled, even as he understood the logic of the doctor’s statement. Martok was one of them now. There shouldn’t be any doubt in his mind that he would join his Guardian brethren in… whatever this was. As much as it sickened him, it was a good strategy. 

Second, every Jem’Hadar weapon was gathered in the docking bay where the two Guardian ships were posted. The weapons out enemies raise against us. There were hundreds of blasters, ribbons and ribbons of ammunition, stacks and stacks of knives. Worf watched as it was piled high outside the _Champagne_ , watched Martok and Julian trade jibes as one or the other failed to lift a crate or dropped a roll of ammo. Dax came and sat next to him. Her hair was falling out of her braid and she was soaked in sweat. The smell was visceral, physical, real. It grounded him. 

“How you holding up?” she asked and he turned to her, seeing for the first time that her uniform shirt had been torn in the fight. The wound beneath was bandaged. She must have seen his eyes widen at the sight. “One of the Worthless patched me up,” she said. “Julian took a look at it; they did an alright job.” She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.  
“I am…” he considered lying to her. “You’ve seen the General.” 

“That’s why I was concerned.” She said, her voice just to one side of sarcastic. Of _course_ she was concerned. General Martok was dead! His idol, mentor, friend, had succumbed to torture by the Jem’Hadar and now he was cursed, condemned, as if he had died without honor. This was worse than the Barge of the Dead though, wasn’t it? Because he was there, walking around, getting to know a parcel of other Klingons, also cursed. Worf felt bile in his throat again. Dax squeezed his hand. 

“He isn’t even upset,” he said. “He’s been cheated of his death and it doesn’t seem to bother him. That… thing must’ve done something to him.”

“I’m sure he just needs to adjust,” Dax said. “It probably hasn’t hit him yet.”

“You are too trusting.” Worf shook his head. “We don’t actually know that the Ghosts do nothing to Guardians when they raise them. Dr. Bashir seems… content with being _that_ , but what if his Ghost tampered with his mind somehow? What if they are all—”

“Worf,” Dax leaned back and looked at him. “Do you hear yourself? So Guardians view death differently than Klingons do. So do humans. And Trill. Do you think someone’s tampered with us too?” Worf only looked at her. “Do you know why I joined Star Fleet? For the adventure, and the scientific discovery, and to meet people who aren’t like me.” She stood, brushed herself off. “So many of the people I’ve encountered in my time… in all of my _lives_ have made my life and the _galaxy_ better because they have something different to contribute. Whether you like it or not.” She turned her on her heel and a vision flashed in Worf’s head: of her walking away, marching toward the Guardians. He reached toward her. They both froze when Grexi’s shrill cry rang out through the docking bay. 

The other Klingon Guardians all answered her battle cry with proper, throaty howls. Martok joined in after a second. 

Grexi was standing with Otovo in the docking bay entrance, both of them carrying Jem’Hadar uniforms on their shoulders. The armor they think will shield them. Otovo was the only Guardian who hadn’t removed their helmet yet.

“Twelve!” Grexi called to Worf. She heaved the uniforms off onto Julian, nearly knocking him over. “Twelve solo kills and nineteen assists!” She said, pointing at him, marching forward with the single-minded intensity of a bullet. “I checked. That’s more than any of the others and Martok was _Supercharged_ for half of it. Ha!” she put her fists on her hips and bellowed out a great laugh. “Does that make me a Klingon?” Grexi’s armor was splattered with blood and viscera, the way Atsa’s had been. The perfect shape of a handprint glared at Worf from her chest. 

For the third time in very minutes, Worf felt sick to his stomach. This time, he succumbed; doubled over in a Dominion docking bay, the stench of battle heavy in the air, a dead Klingon general thirty feet from him, startled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get @ me about my characterization of Worf.


End file.
